CHAPTER III

THERE WERE THIRTEEN OF THEM IN ALL. I HAD BEEN IN MY room, writing to Marfa, when I heard a knock at the door. It was Maks.

'They're here.'

In the dim light of Maks' oil lamp, I saw a tall figure that I took to be their leader greeting Dmitry with the warm hug of an old friend – a hug which Dmitry did not quite return. He was an impressive man. His age could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. A domed forehead was underlined by thick, bushy eyebrows which topped a thin, aristocratic nose. Arched nostrils were almost hidden by a long moustache of dark iron-grey, which contributed to a general air of unkemptness. The moustache, like his hair, was unevenly trimmed, due perhaps to the lack of a mirror on his long journey. The general appearance of nobility fallen on hard times reminded me of the fleeing French aristocrats who had begun to arrive in Petersburg during my youth.

Dmitry introduced him to each of us in turn. In his reaction to us, he seemed to both mimic and amplify Dmitry's own attitudes. To Vadim, he showed respect and, without any explicit signals such as a salute or a click of the heels, greeted him as one old campaigner greets another. Of Maks, he was almost dismissive.

As he came to me, he took my hand in a firm grip and patted me on the back. I noticed his broad, squat fingers and coarse, dirty nails, which again contrasted with his refined demeanour. 'Aleksei Ivanovich, I'm very happy to meet you at last,' he said with a wide smile. As was to be expected, we all spoke in French. None of us understood the language of his country and there was no reason to suppose that he or any of them would know Russian – in that respect they had something in common with many of the Russian nobility. 'Dmitry Fetyukovich spoke frequently of you as we fought side by side against the Turk,' he continued. 'His friend is my friend.'

Our side of the introductions was complete, and the stranger fell silent. Vadim was the first to speak. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but we still haven't heard your name.'

'My name?' he replied, as if surprised at even the suggestion that he might have a name. I glanced over to Dmitry, who surely must have known the visitor's name, but he was staring at the ground as though embarrassed.

'My name is Zmyeevich,' announced the stranger with a sudden resolution. It was not a genuine Russian name, although somewhere at the back of my mind it struck a distant resonance with memories from my childhood. Literally, the meaning was simple – 'son of the serpent'. I could only guess that it was a direct translation of his name from his own tongue.

He followed us to the private room in the inn that we always used for our meetings. As they trooped in behind him, I got my first real glimpse of his twelve companions. While he had the manner of an officer who had seen better days, they seemed to me as men who had never risen above the gutter. All were scruffy and dressed without style, or at best with the style of peasants. They shuffled, round-shouldered, into the room, failing to make eye contact with any of us. They might be mistaken for a gang of convicts except that their failure to look up at us came not from respect or even fear, but simply from an utter lack of regard for our existence. Though not tall, each was broad and stockily built. I would have feared them in a contest that depended solely on brawn, but not in one of wits. They were not the type that I would expect to see in the officers' mess.

Only the last of the twelve showed any interest at all in his surroundings. He was taller than the others, though not as tall as their leader, and was marked out by his long, blond hair. The others all had their hair cut short, no doubt to reduce the numbers of lice which I felt sure would otherwise have infested them. As this last man entered, his eyes rapidly glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings and briefly scanning the faces of the four Russian officers whom he was meeting for the first time. Then his eyes dropped and he sat down, taking on the same cowed posture that his comrades had borne all along.

Maks muttered a single word in my ear: 'Oprichniki.' Despite their lack of character, there was still a feeling of menace about them which, Maks could see as well as I, justified Dmitry's original description.

Zmyeevich had remained standing and now began to speak in very precise, but very formal and strangely accented French. His voice had a darkness to it and seemed to emit not from his throat but from deep in his torso. Somewhere inside him it was as if giant millstones were turning against one another, or as though the lid were being slowly dragged aside to open a stone sarcophagus.

'Greetings once again, old friends and new. Greetings to you, Vadim Fyodorovich' – he turned and bowed briefly to each of us as he spoke – 'to you, Maksim Sergeivich, to you, Aleksei Ivanovich and, of course, to you, our dearest of friends, Dmitry Fetyukovich.

'Dmitry Fetyukovich and I, and some of our friends here,' he said, waving a graceless hand towards the twelve who were sitting around him, 'first fought together some years ago against the old enemy from the east. The Turk has been an enemy of your beloved Russia for longer than any of you could remember and the first, famous battles of my own now long-distant youth were to defend my land from those same heathen invaders. But now the threat to all of us comes from where we might once have least expected it; from the west.

'While the unchristian Turk,' he continued, seeming not to notice the ripple of movement that his mention of the word 'unchristian' sent through the evidently pious twelve, 'cannot be blamed for his heresy, having learned it from his father and his father before him, Bonaparte has led his country to an abandonment of the Christ Whom that nation had long known and loved.' I felt that Maks was about to comment on the accuracy of this and I pressed my hand on his arm to keep him silent. This was not a debating society and his point of information would not be considered in order. Even so, it surprised me as much as Maks that Zmyeevich should try to turn this into a religious conflict. It seemed to me almost that he was protesting too much.

'So now we must face the common enemy,' Zmyeevich continued. 'You Russians have fought more bravely than any in Europe against Bonaparte and, believe me, I have no doubt, no doubt' – he closed his eyes and gave a juddering shake of the head; he was beginning to enjoy himself in the role of public speaker – 'that you will continue to do so. I bring you but twelve men. Good men – strong men, and yet I feel ashamed, ashamed that they are so few.'

The rhetoric was becoming almost unbearably overblown. I glanced round at my friends. Dmitry was slouched in his chair trying to show with great effort the indifference of a man who has heard it all before. Maks was leaning forward listening intently. Had I known him less well, I might have believed he was a devotee of the figure who addressed us, but in reality I knew that he was drinking in every word only so that he might analyse it, dissect it and demolish it when the time arose. To my surprise it was Vadim who, having caught my eye, was biting his finger, trying to hold in the laughter. Vadim, who had spouted so many similar, lame platitudes in his time, who had listened in rapture to speeches by so many Russian generals, was the one who could see so quickly the shallowness of this vain Wallachian.

'They are diffident men,' Zmyeevich proceeded, with a hint of emotion in his voice. 'Men of virtue, men of valour, men of strength – yes, but also men of honour. They may commit great acts of . . . of (may I say it?) heroism, but still for reasons that I cannot explain, they would rather their true names remained unknown. These are the names by which you will know them:

'Pyetr. Andrei. Ioann.'

As each pseudonym was called out, the man in question gave a brief nod, but still they maintained the same lack of interest; the same appearance of the belief that this whole meeting was an unnecessary distraction from some greater cause upon which they were embarking.

'Filipp. Varfolomei. Matfei.'

The names he had chosen were Russian and the accent with which he spoke our own language was even less convincing than that with which he spoke French. Nevertheless, even after three names I had realized that the chosen aliases were simply the names of the twelve apostles. After six names, I think even the least religious of us had worked it out. Again, the laboured Christianity seemed intended more to mock than to glorify.

'Simon. Iakov Zevedayinich. Iakov Alfeyinich.'

Vadim began to cough, which I guessed was to stifle his laughter.

'Foma. Faddei. Iuda.'

When the name Foma was read out, I noted a glance between the individual so named and some of his comrades. I could imagine the scene when these names had been allocated; Pyetr, Simon, Matfei and most of the others happy with their names, but Foma feeling he had drawn the short straw, not wanting to be the Foma – the 'Doubting Thomas' – of the group. I might have thought that there would also be disagreement about who got the name 'Iuda', but amongst these men I could see it would be an honour, not a disgrace, to be given the name of the betrayer.

Iuda was the tall, blond-haired figure I had noted earlier.

'I am only sorry,' their leader went on, 'that I myself am too old and too tired to join these twelve brave men in the fight. You may doubt,' and his eyes fell upon Maks, who, I'm sure, did doubt what he was going to say, whatever it might be, 'that so few can do very much. But believe me, they have what is required. They have the desire – the lust to succeed.'

One of the Oprichniki, Matfei, I think it was – although I was still not used to their names – made a comment in their own indecipherable language. I suspect it hinged on the word 'lust'. Eleven of the twelve laughed heartily, as soldiers would at some dirty joke, some not getting it, others not thinking it funny, but all laughing because that is what they ought to do. Only Iuda was different. He didn't laugh, but his face betrayed a knowing smile, just as a childless adult smiles at a child's joke, amused by its naivety, but not delighting in its innocence. He glanced at Zmyeevich and in observing their momentary connection I felt suddenly uneasy. I felt sure that whatever reasons the eleven other Wallachians had for being in Russia, these two had some greater purpose. Any mirth I might have been sharing with Vadim evaporated.

Zmyeevich continued almost instantly. 'And so now I must leave you.' He paused, expecting, I think, some protest from us at his departure. None came. 'I have a long journey back to my homeland and you, my friends, have much work to do.'

Vadim stood, remembering his duties as host. 'Won't you at least stay here tonight? You can set off in the morning.'

The man laughed a hearty, artificial laugh. 'My dear friend, you take me too literally. I of course don't intend to travel by night in these dangerous times, but I have already arranged accommodation elsewhere in the city. I shall depart at first light, but for us, this is farewell.'

The four of us stepped out into the hallway with him to say goodbye. I was glad to be out of that room for a moment, away from the strange, oppressive presence of the twelve Oprichniki. As I closed the door, they immediately began talking to each other in low, conspiratorial voices and in their own language. Even away from them, being in Zmyeevich's presence in the dark corridor was an experience I did not want to endure for very long.

He took us each in turn by the hand and kissed us on both cheeks. As his face came close to mine, a sudden miasma surrounded me, which I realized was the stench of his breath. I recalled years ago standing over a mass grave where the bodies of brave soldiers had been lying for many days. The same odour of decay rose from the depths of his stomach. I felt the same urge to run as I had then, accompanied by an even deeper sense of dread which I could not place; but I managed not to recoil.

As he moved finally to Dmitry and shook his hand, I noticed for the first time an ornate ring on his middle finger. It was the figure of a dragon, with a body of gold, emerald eyes and red, forked tongue. Its tail coiled around his finger. I suddenly doubted whether I had understood his name correctly. He could just as easily be 'son of the dragon' as 'son of the serpent', perhaps even 'son of the viper'. The ring certainly looked to me most like a dragon. I could not even be sure there was any distinction between the words in his native language.

As he stood at the doorway, Zmyeevich exchanged a few final comments with Vadim. 'Now that I am gone, I leave Pyetr in charge in my place,' he said in a soft, clear voice.

Maks whispered in my ear with a snigger. 'Peter as his successor? He thinks he's Jesus Christ.' I was in no mood now to share his humour.

The man would not have understood the Russian, even if he had heard it clearly, but he gave Maks the disappointed look of an elderly guest who has been unnecessarily and unworthily insulted. Maks became suddenly still.

'And do not be too concerned about the names,' Zmyeevich continued, looking at each of us in turn with a slight smile upon his lips, as if acknowledging some ungiven praise for the humour of his choice of soubriquets. 'Read nothing into the name "Iuda". He is not the betrayer.' His eyes came to rest on Maks as he spoke the final word.

With that he left, and an iciness seemed to descend on the building. I sensed in Maks the same feeling of cold, visceral fear that I was experiencing in myself. Vadim paused for a moment and then let out his suppressed laughter. Though the same mirth had been building up in me at first, it had been replaced by something much darker. But to join in with Vadim's laughter, however little it fitted my true mood, was a relief. Dmitry smiled at our immaturity, but didn't laugh, presumably familiar with his friend's extravagant style. Only Maks remained unmoved, looking afraid and thoughtful.

'I'm sorry, Dmitry,' said Vadim. 'I know he's your friend and I'm sure he's a very brave man, but he does have a certain air of . . .' He searched for a polite word.

'Pomposity?' suggested Dmitry, neutrally.

Vadim smiled broadly and nodded. 'And those bizarre patronymics. Zevedayinich? Alfeyinich?'

'I think he considers it his duty as a guest to make some effort with our language,' explained Dmitry. 'You should congratulate him for trying, even if he does get things a little wrong.' Zmyeevich could not really be blamed for his inability to correctly name the apostles in Russian. I had never in my life seen a complete Russian translation of the Bible, and I doubt whether such a thing existed.

'And his own name,' I added with a laugh.

'No, that's good Russian,' corrected Vadim. 'Zmyeevich is a character from one of the old ballads; Tugarin Zmyeevich.'

That was why the name had seemed familiar to me, though I still couldn't remember the details. 'And was he the hero or the villain?' I asked. Vadim shrugged his shoulders.

'I don't think that's where the name came from, anyway,' explained Dmitry with a condescending calm.

'Are they the same men you fought with before?' asked Maks, who had recovered his power of speech, although he was still unable to share the mood of good humour.

'Four of them, I think,' replied Dmitry. 'Pyetr, Ioann, Varfolomei and Andrei, although they didn't go by those names before. And Foma looks familiar but . . .' Dmitry looked suddenly pale, almost as if he was about to be sick, but he quickly recovered himself.

'No, he wasn't one of them. To be honest it's hard to remember. None of them made much impression on me. They're not exactly keen on conversation.'

'We'd better go back in,' said Vadim, who had calmed down by now.

Inside the room, the atmosphere had cheered a little. All twelve of the Oprichniki were again laughing, again in that way that groups of men do, in order to be seen laughing by the others. Our entry, if it was even observed by them, didn't immediately stop them.

We sat down again and Vadim addressed Pyetr in slow, clear French.

'We plan to head west. We will go around the French and attack their supply lines.'

'We prefer to work alone.' Pyetr's reply was curt, but his French was perfectly formed and quite well accented.

'You can work alone,' said Vadim, speaking more fluently now he knew that they, or at least Pyetr, understood him clearly, 'but you're not familiar with the land. You'll need our help with that at least.'

'Agreed,' nodded Pyetr. 'We work at night. That way the enemy is asleep and will not be ready for us.'

'That's reasonable. We can travel by day and attack during darkness.'

'No.' Pyetr made the explanation of his tactics sound like a list of demands. 'The body must adjust to the demands of the work. We sleep by day and kill at night. If that is not comfortable for you, then we shall manage without you.'

Vadim glanced around the four of us, but found no objections. 'Very well,' he agreed. He handed over some papers. 'Here are maps of the area to the west of Moscow. Bonaparte is presently nearing the town of Viasma.' He opened a map and pointed out the location. 'I've also marked out possible places where we can meet if we are separated. We'll set out tomorrow evening.'

Pyetr and the others showed little interest in the maps. 'How many men does Bonaparte have?'

Vadim looked to me for an answer. I consulted my notes. 'We estimate 130,000.'

A sense of excitement ran through the Oprichniki as they heard this number, of which I could make little sense. Numbers don't matter much when one is operating by stealth. Whether they were outnumbered a thousand to twelve or a hundred thousand to twelve, they were still in a hopeless minority. A few comments passed between them and some faces broke into smiles that seemed almost lascivious.

'And how many Russians?' asked one of the others – Foma, I think – in a mocking tone.

Vadim raised a hand to stop me revealing this information, although I had no intention of doing so. Pyetr spat a single angry word at Foma, and then turned back to us. 'We do not, of course, need to know that. It is just idle curiosity.'

'Good,' said Vadim.

Our discussions went on long into the night. We tried to give our best appraisal of the French plans and disposition. None of them asked any more about our own forces. It was agreed that they would divide into four groups. Vadim would accompany Faddei, Filipp and Iakov Zevedayinich. Dmitry would take Pyetr, Varfolomei and Ioann. Maks had Andrei, Simon and Iakov Alfeyinich and I was left with Foma, Iuda and Matfei.

It was towards dawn that they finally departed. Like their leader before them, they explained that they had arranged their own accommodation, but gave no more detail. We agreed to meet again that evening, 16 August, at nine o'clock, to begin our journey west.

I harboured no intention of following Pyetr's advice of getting used to sleeping during the day, but our late discussions had forced it upon me. It was past ten o'clock when I arose. I finished the letter to Marfa that I had been writing the previous evening.

There was little I could put in it of the details of my work, or indeed of the details of my leisure time, so it turned out to be an insubstantial document. I mentioned that I was leaving Moscow and didn't know when I would return, but made no reference to the new comrades that I had met only the previous night.

I once again visited Domnikiia. My mind was on the journey that lay ahead of me and on the hollowness of my letter to Marfa, and so I said little. As with Marfa, it was wise not to discuss my work in any detail.

'I'm leaving Moscow this evening,' I told her.

'Why?' She asked as if the news was not unexpected.

'The war. You remember?' I didn't need to be sarcastic.

She came over and lay beside me, stroking my hair and staring into my eyes. 'Will you be coming back?'

'Of course,' I replied, knowing full well that it was a question that no soldier can answer with complete certainty.

'When?'

'Before Bonaparte gets here.' It was meant to be a joke, but my own belief in the possibility of Bonaparte's arrival in Moscow spoiled the delivery.

That afternoon Domnikiia was strangely distracted, strangely removed from her work, as if she had forgotten all those tricks and affectations that made her so good at her job; so able to convince that she didn't see it as a job. She was like other prostitutes I had been with; simply a compliant piece of female flesh. I couldn't tell whether she had forgotten her show because there was no prospect of repeat business with a man who was about to die, or whether the prospect of my death really had disturbed her.

As I was dressing she picked up the icon that Marfa had sent me and looked deep into the Saviour's eyes. 'You only started wearing this the other day. Who gave it to you?'

It seemed somehow wrong to tell her about my wife, not because it might offend Domnikiia, who must have been used to such things, but it seemed somehow offensive to Marfa herself to mention her within that room.

'I've had it for ages. It just seemed appropriate to start wearing it, now that the danger is so near.'

'Oh,' she said thoughtfully, then, as if on a different subject, 'Maks said . . .' She looked up at me. It looked like Maks had mentioned Marfa as the sender of the icon. If that had been what Domnikiia was about to say, she changed her mind. 'Maks said you weren't superstitious.'

'Maks was speaking for himself.'

She put the chain over my head and hung the icon around my neck once again. 'Promise me you won't ever take it off.'

'Why?' I asked.

'It will protect you. Promise me!'

'I promise.' It was easy enough to say. Wearing it did me no harm, though I doubted that whatever manner of god was out there would change his attitude towards me merely because of a small piece of metal hanging around my neck. But it was comforting to feel the icon hanging against my chest for a quite different reason. It acted as a reminder; a reminder of my superstitious wife who had sent it to me and of my superstitious lover who insisted that I keep it on.

As I left the brothel, a group of junior officers, about eight of them, none yet twenty years old, was loitering outside. They clearly knew what kind of establishment it was and were searching for the courage to go in. Like many young men, and perhaps particularly young soldiers, they seemed to be considering the issue in terms of their relationship with one another, rather than the more stimulating relations that they might be having with the young ladies inside. I had been about their age on my first visit to a brothel, but the difference was that I had gone alone. I had enjoyed the experience very much, but even then I had not thought it the sort of thing to discuss with my friends.

But for these boys it was about how they would be viewed by one another; a rite of passage to manhood in which it mattered what was seen to be done rather than what was actually done or how much pleasure they got from doing it. Those of them who seemed most keen still held back to keep with the crowd. Those who were reluctant went along anyway rather than be left behind. They spoke of what they were going to do in there and laughed about it, giving the distinct impression that the talking about it both before and afterwards – not even the recollection, but the talking – was where the real enjoyment lay.

It was reminiscent of something I had encountered very recently, but could not place. Then it struck me that this was exactly the same sense of hungry anticipation that I'd noted in the Oprichniki the previous night; the same way that they were all eager to go to war, but eager also to be seen by their comrades as wanting to go to war. Every soldier fights, when it comes down to it, for his brothers-in-arms – for his friends – but some, like these, do it to be accepted by their comrades, to be proved as men in the eyes of other men.

Of course the boys on their first visit to a brothel would, most likely, grow out of it. For the Oprichniki, it was too late.

Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and I met up privately a little before our appointment with the Oprichniki. We had nothing secret to discuss, but I think we all shared the same sense of foreboding and, since we were unlikely to meet again for several days, it gave us all a chance to say our goodbyes. It was typical of both me and Vadim to make something of these occasions, but even Dmitry, with his façade of jaded unconcern, and Maksim, with his of intellectual detachment, did not hold back in embracing the rest of us.

We mounted our horses and set off to the square where we had arranged to meet them. As the four of us rode side by side, the thought of another four horsemen flashed into my mind. It was laughable to decide which of us was War, Famine or Pestilence, but I felt a shiver when I noticed the pallor of Maks' horse.

As we headed through the darkness towards the western boundary of the city to our rendezvous at the Dorogomilovsky Gate, the wooden buildings that lined the streets loomed and crowded around me in a way that I had never before perceived.

The twelve men with whom we were about to meet were not so mysterious as to make me afraid, but for some reason I felt that the city I so loved was itself trying to warn me of what was to come. Approaching the gate, I strove to make out from the shadows the figures of the Oprichniki, and I felt sure that I could clearly see twelve dark forms on horseback, waiting in a semicircle for our arrival. With each step closer, I tried to see if I could recognize individuals from the group, but suddenly, as we were almost upon them, I realized that it was an illusion of the shadows. There was no one there.

'Excellent!' murmured Vadim sarcastically, turning to Dmitry for a reason for the Oprichniki's absence. There was nothing that Dmitry could say, but as he took a breath to offer some form of explanation, all our heads turned sharply to the sound of a horse's hooves, back in the direction from which we had come.

Out of the gloom, a lone horseman approached. At first, we didn't identify him as an Oprichnik, but as he grew closer it became clear that his height and his general demeanour had fooled us. It was Iuda who had come to meet us.

'There has been a change of plan,' he announced. 'We travel faster alone, and so we're going to make our own way out to the front. There's an inn just outside Gzatsk that you marked on the map as a meeting place. We'll see you there in three days.' There was no discussion to be had. After Iuda had informed us of the new arrangements, he rode off without another word.

Vadim was, I could tell, silently furious, but there was nothing to be said that could change matters, so he remained practical. 'They may like to travel by night, but that doesn't mean we have to. We'll stay here in Moscow tonight and set off at first light. Two and a half days is plenty time enough for us to get to Gzatsk.'

'I looked up Tugarin Zmyeevich, by the way,' Maks announced as we cantered along the road to Gzatsk.

'And?' I asked.

'Turns out he was the villain,' Maks continued.

'And so I presume he got his comeuppance,' said Vadim.

'Oh, yes,' replied Maks. He turned to me. 'At the hands of an Alyosha; Alyosha Popovich. Shot him dead with an arrow.' I was called Alyosha even less frequently than Lyosha, but I wasn't going to split hairs.

'So I guess our Zmyeevich is some kind of relative,' said Vadim, concealing a smirk.

'I don't think so,' responded Dmitry with a note of scorn. 'It's pure coincidence.'

'It's quite a coincidence that he should have a Russian name at all,' said Maks, 'given that he's not Russian.' Dmitry did not rise to the bait, though it was clear to us all the leader was in truth no more named Zmyeevich than his followers were named after the apostles.

'I just hope our Lyosha isn't going to kill him. That's no way to treat an ally,' laughed Vadim.

'Mind you,' continued Maks, 'Tugarin Zmyeevich was carried around on a golden bench by twelve knights, so the story goes. Twelve of them, Dmitry.'

It would have been better if it had been Vadim who was Zmyeevich's friend. Dmitry was no fun to tease. He just sat tightlipped astride his horse as we rode on.

'I expect the Oprichniki just left the bench outside the other night,' I said. 'It would have been tricky to get it up the stairs.' Maks grinned and Vadim snorted a laugh.

'It's just coincidence!' snapped Dmitry, and spurred his horse on so that he could continue his journey away from the rest of us. I don't think the others really noticed, but for me it was just one more reason to be concerned about him – one more reason that led back to his 'friends', the Oprichniki.

Two and a half days proved not only time enough for us to get to Gzatsk, but almost enough for Bonaparte to get there too. As we reached the inn, soon after nine o'clock on the evening of the nineteenth, we had already made our way through a throng of people escaping the town. The rumours were that the French would be in occupation by the following day.

This time, the Oprichniki kept their appointment. They seemed in no mood to exchange pleasantries and keen only to get on with the job at hand. We split into the groups we had determined back in Moscow. I said a far more cursory goodbye to Vadim, Dmitry and Maks than previously. I led my team of Iuda, Foma and Matfei out of the town to the south, before turning westwards towards the right flank of the advancing French.

The journey proceeded mostly in silence. Those attempts that I made at conversation with Foma and Matfei were not even rebuffed, simply ignored. Iuda was marginally more talkative, but even then only on matters directly related to our mission. It was, I suppose, wise of them. We were travelling through darkness in a direction that we knew would take us to the enemy's lines, but we had little idea of precisely where those lines were situated. It was best that we remained silent and did not reveal ourselves through unnecessary chatter. We rode on for several hours, looking and listening for any sign of Bonaparte's armies.

Some time after midnight, the crescent moon rose in the sky behind us. The light would be of little extra help to us, and might be of great assistance in revealing our presence to the enemy. Luckily, it wasn't long – much sooner, indeed, than I had expected – before we saw the first glimpse of the French campfires. The rumours of how far they had advanced were proving to be true. We dismounted and I watched the camp, about half a verst away, through my spyglass.

'How many do you see?' asked Iuda.

'There's only a dozen or so still awake, but there are several tents,' I replied. 'There could be over a hundred men there in total.'

'Too many, I think,' said Iuda thoughtfully, although to me it seemed he was stating the obvious, until he went on with, 'at least for the first attack of our campaign. Probably better if we just start out by picking off a few stragglers.'

I thought that this was somewhat pointless. While on the one hand, an attack on a camp of a hundred or so was impossible, attacking isolated soldiers in ones and twos would have no impact whatsoever. There were tactical problems too.

'Finding stragglers may not be easy,' I told him. 'They'll all stay close to their—'

I was interrupted by the abrupt French command of 'Stand up!' Looking over my shoulder I saw first a bayonet, then the rifle to which it was attached and, finally, the French infantryman holding the rifle. In all, there were six of them surrounding the four of us. 'Lay down your swords and guns!' continued the officer in charge.

The odds against us weren't insurmountable, but our survival (and, more pertinently, my survival) didn't seem probable if we resisted. 'Do as he says,' I said calmly to the three Oprichniki under my command.

I think that may well have been the first time I attempted to give them a direct order. As orders go, it wasn't particularly successful. As I began to unbuckle my scabbard, Matfei threw himself towards the nearest Frenchman. Two rifles fired at him. Whether they both missed completely or caused some minor wound, I could not see, but he did not flinch and soon had his man on the ground.

Taking our cue from Matfei, Iuda, Foma and I also attacked. The infantryman who was covering me was distracted and it was no problem to knock his bayonet to one side and get in close enough for my sword to be of use in a quick kill. I turned to the next man. He had already fired his musket and had no bayonet fixed, so should have been easy meat.

As I turned, the butt of his gun came into heavy contact with my temple. I slumped to the ground. My last vision before unconsciousness was of the French infantryman again lifting his rifle to deliver a final, fatal blow to my skull and behind him Iuda, his arm raised ready to attack and his mouth wide open in a silent scream.