CHAPTER IX

IN MY SHOCK I SQUEEZED DOMNIKIIA'S HANDS SO TIGHTLY THAT I made her flinch. The surprise at seeing Iuda there was quickly followed by questions. Why was he there? How had he known where to find me? The answer to the latter came to me easily – Dmitry. I felt more than ever that Dmitry's feet were both far too firmly planted in the Oprichnik camp.

'Aren't you going to introduce me to this delightful young lady?' Iuda continued with a smile. It had taken me a moment to realize that he was speaking Russian, and extremely fluent Russian at that. Previously, we had communicated with the Oprichniki in nothing but French. I scoured my memory for any conversations that we – Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and I – might have had in their presence under the assumption that we would not be understood.

'I'm Dominique,' Domnikiia told him, holding out her hand. As he kissed it, gazing throughout upward into her eyes, I once again felt a certain secret pride that to others she was still Dominique. I was one of the few who knew her by her Russian name.

'People call me Iuda,' he replied. 'I was just saying to my old friend, Margarita Kirillovna' – Margarita giggled as he spoke – 'how much I've come to admire Aleksei since we've been working together.'

'Old friend?' I asked with a raised eyebrow.

'Of all of five minutes,' said Margarita. 'He said he'd come here to find you. It didn't seem right to let him wait outside. He says he's going to save us from the French.'

'Not by myself,' protested Iuda, falsely it seemed to me, but others might have been convinced. 'I am merely a tool to do as Aleksei Ivanovich wishes.'

'Did you know Maksim as well?' asked Domnikiia. She wanted to talk about him, but knew that it was difficult for me.

'Not well,' replied Iuda, 'but what I knew I liked. I can't agree with his reasons for turning to France, but I'm sure he did what he did with an honest heart and for what he thought was the good of humanity.'

I was astonished at his duplicity. It was he who had forced me to hand over Maks to him and the others, and here he was quoting Maks' own words back at me. What was more, he had completely boxed me in. If I were to take a contrary position now, then I would be attacking Maks. I realized how much wiser it would have been to tell Domnikiia every detail in the first place.

'I know that you had a dreadful decision to make, Aleksei,' he continued, putting his hand on my arm and displaying a look of intense sincerity in his eyes, 'but I know too that, deep down, you feel that you were right in what you did. It's never easy to place one's country above one's friends. I too have lost some dear friends in this war, Aleksei. My heart goes out to you. Your friend Maks' – and now he was addressing Domnikiia directly – 'was a brave man until the end.' The pause between 'man' and 'until' was heard only by my ears.

She took his hand and held it in hers. 'Thank you, Iuda,' she said. 'Thank you for saying that about Maks.' He lifted her right hand and kissed it again. Then he raised his hat to both Margarita and Domnikiia.

'Goodbye, dear friends. I hope you both enjoy your time in Yuryev-Polsky. If Aleksei is half the soldier I know him to be, we'll soon have the city safe for you again.' Then, turning to me, 'I'm sure you have goodbyes to say, Aleksei. I'll wait for you.' He walked away, over towards the bench from which I'd first seen Domnikiia, almost a year before.

I noticed both women following his departure with smiling faces. I raised my hat to Margarita, feeling that the gesture would be seen only as a pale imitation of Iuda. 'Goodbye then, Margarita Kirillovna. I hope we shall meet again soon.'

Margarita smiled and then, after a moment, realized that it was she that I intended to be the one to depart. 'Oh, right,' she said. 'Don't leave the door open for too long.' She went inside.

'I should have known you wanted to talk about Maksim,' I said to Domnikiia.

'Oh, that's all right' – she spoke with concern at the thought of having caused me any worry – 'I know you don't want to. But it was good to hear Iuda say such nice things about him. He seems like a decent man to have on your side. That's not his real name, is it?' It took me a moment to realize that the question was in jest.

'No,' I laughed. 'No, it's not, but I have no idea what his name really is.'

'You'd better go. He's waiting.'

We kissed for what seemed like only a moment, although no length of time could ever have been enough, and then she went inside, the sound of the bolts bringing home the truth of a separation that, for all I knew, might never be ended.

I went over to Iuda. Sitting next to him on the bench, after a covert, silent arrival, was Matfei.

'What do you want?' I asked, failing to disguise my hostility.

'Firstly,' said Iuda, 'I wanted to confirm for you that Maksim Sergeivich is dead. I know that in these situations any slight doubt can be cankerous.'

'Did you bring him back for burial?'

'Hardly practical, I'm afraid, in these dangerous times, but trust me, the body was dealt with properly.' He saw my expression. 'Remember, Aleksei Ivanovich, we too come from a Christian country,' he said, with a genuine desire to convince me.

I realized I was being churlish. We were still on the same side. 'Thank you,' I said. 'And the second thing?'

'To decide what we're going to do next; militarily.'

'I don't know. I've got to discuss it with Vadim, Dmitry and . . .' it was a reflex '. . . with Vadim and Dmitry.'

'We have, to be honest, already spoken with Vadim. We think it would be best if we were to stay hidden in Moscow when the French arrive. Then we can cause the maximum disruption.

We can either weaken them, so that they dare not carry on to Petersburg, or even force them to leave Moscow altogether.'

'Just the twelve of you to liberate Moscow? Nine of you now.' I suddenly noticed the equal ratios of our losses and remembered that they too were men and would be grieving the loss of their friends no less than I did that of Maks.

Iuda became colder and spoke like an artisan whose workmanship has been insulted. 'You have already seen what just a few of us are capable of.'

'True enough.' In all honesty, it sounded like a good plan. The sort of tactics that I'd seen the Oprichniki use weren't best suited to attacking an army on the march. But an army at rest, far from home in a strange city – that was another story. 'Where do we come in?' I asked.

'We know Moscow as little as the French do. You can tell us where to hide; where to find the enemy. You can pass yourselves off as residual Russians or as French officers – as I have already seen. We are neither Russian nor French. Most of us would soon be found out.' He glanced towards Matfei as he spoke. Iuda knew well enough, as I had heard, that his Russian would convince most natives, let alone the French invaders. It was for his less accomplished confederates, such as Matfei, that he was concerned.

I considered for a moment. 'I'll discuss it with Vadim and Dmitry tomorrow. Where shall we meet?'

'We've already arranged such details with Vadim. He'll tell you.'

With that they both rose and walked off into the night. Through the darkness I could see that Matfei soon turned off the street and the two of them went their separate ways. It occurred to me that Matfei, who had said nothing during the conversation, could only have come along to offer Iuda protection. I could not see Iuda bringing him for the pleasure of his company. Clearly, the only person that Iuda might need protecting from was me.

And so I had discovered two things. Firstly, that Iuda appreciated that, after what had happened to Maks, he could not entirely trust me as an ally. Secondly, that if it were to come to a clash between us, Iuda was not completely convinced he would win.

I had said goodbye to Domnikiia, but it was not to be the last time I saw her before she left Moscow. Iuda and Matfei's appearance at the brothel had filled me with concern. It was clear enough that Dmitry had told them that it would be a good place to find me and, once there, Iuda had observed for himself my relationship with Domnikiia. It was also evident that he had found out from Margarita that they were travelling to Yuryev-Polsky. It could all, of course, be put down to paranoia. Iuda had no argument with me and, even if he did, that would not mean he would try to get to me through Domnikiia. On the other hand, I was unable to sleep until I had at least seen her safe departure.

The streets were quieter than during the day. Those carts and carriages that were about were mostly tied up for the night, their occupants sleeping in them ready for the day's journey ahead. I found myself a vantage point some way down the street from her door and waited, looking out for any sign of the Oprichniki as well as for Domnikiia. It was just after six o'clock when, lit by the sun's early rays and heralded by the dawn chorus, three covered wagons pulled up outside the brothel door. The door opened and the three coachmen went inside, returning with trunks and bags, which they loaded on to the rear wagon. They repeated their journey again and again, until the wagon was almost full. Then out processed eight girls and a man. The man was Pyetr Pyetrovich, a personage of ostentatious but undeniable wealth. How else could he afford three coaches when members of the richest families in Moscow were trading in their most valued heirlooms for a single seat on a hay cart?

I felt a thrill of satisfaction as I focused upon Domnikiia amongst the girls. It was an inexplicably exciting sensation. I could have gone up to greet Domnikiia face to face if I had wanted to. If she had known that I was there watching, she would not have minded in the slightest. And yet for some unknown reason, I gained a far greater enjoyment from viewing her in secret.

Pyetr Pyetrovich locked his door with a large key. Four of the girls climbed into the front wagon and four into the middle one. Domnikiia was the last to clamber into the middle wagon. I realized that any fears I had about Iuda and the Oprichniki were just self-delusion. All I had wanted was one more momentary glimpse of her.

Pyetr Pyetrovich got on to the front wagon beside the coachman, and the convoy set off. As the carriage turned the corner I caught one brief final sight of Domnikiia sitting there, calm and, little though it suited her, demure.

She was safely on her way out of Moscow, and of the Oprichniki there had been no sign.

I returned to bed and managed a few hours of thankful sleep before setting out for my appointment with Vadim and Dmitry. Progress was slow, as in daylight the streets once again thronged with people, horses, carts and wagons. On one corner, a crowd was gathered around a man who was tied to a tree and being flogged. Although it was not they who were being flogged, fear showed on every face in the crowd – a fear of the coming invaders which they tried and failed to forget by gazing on this spectacle. Amongst them was an artillery sub-lieutenant, relaxing with a clay pipe and watching the beating with a smile.

'What did he do?' I asked.

'He was a footman,' came the artilleryman's incongruous reply.

'I mean, why is he being flogged?'

'Oh, I see.' He tried a clearer explanation. 'He's French.'

'How did he get here then?'

'He's lived here for years. They dragged him out from over there.' He indicated a large, well-appointed house of the type one would expect to have French servants. 'They say he's a spy.'

'Has he been tried?'

'Nope.' He drew deeply on his pipe. 'That's why they're only flogging him.' I couldn't help but wish that other suspected French spies had been treated with such leniency.

'Shouldn't you do something to stop them?' I demanded.

He turned to me and I saw for the first time that his right eye was missing, the socket scarcely beginning to heal over the all-too-fresh wound. He spoke with passion.

'Stop them? I stood and watched as half my platoon was blown to pieces by a single French shell. You think I had this done' – he gestured towards his missing eye – 'just so I could look like General Kutuzov? When civvies like this lot decide to take some revenge on my behalf, you think I'm going to do anything when a damned civvy like you asks me to stop them? You go fight for yourself before you tell a soldier what to do.'

As usual, I wasn't in uniform, and though I could have shown him my papers to prove my rank, what business was it of mine? From stories I heard later, the man was lucky he was only being flogged.

I carried on towards the Moskva. The crammed streets became even more slow-moving. Whatever desperation had inspired the people to flee the city had failed to translate into any keenness in their actual progress. Crowds like the one that had gathered around the flogging did not help, since even those people who didn't stop and cause the obstruction slowed down to get a view of what was going on as they passed.

Along Nikitskiy Street, I came to another constriction in the flow of traffic. A small, flat cart pulled by two grenadiers from the line infantry had come to a halt. On it, lying crossways, side by side, were three of their comrades, their uniforms tattered and bloody. There was an argument between the two men – boys really – who had been pulling the wagon, and two other soldiers – both dragoons, forced to travel on foot. Of these two, one – the one who was in reality doing all the arguing – was in reasonably good shape. His friend was in a sorry condition. His head hung limply, without the desire to look again on anything above the ground. He supported himself on a makeshift crutch; just a conveniently sized branch with a fork in it, which was crammed into his armpit. The need for his crutch became all too apparent as I scanned down his body. His left foot and lower leg hung loosely off the rest of him, just below the knee. Of the shinbone, there was clearly nothing left, and it was only flesh and skin that kept the limb attached. As the cart moved on a little and he took a few steps to keep up, his leg trailed behind him uselessly, dragging in the dirt like the tails of an adult's coat worn by a child. Most likely, the wound had come from a cannonball, bouncing inexorably towards him across the battlefield of Borodino. Whatever the cause, the leg should have been amputated at a dressing station in the field, but at that great battle, the demand for surgery had far outstripped supply, and it looked as though the injured soldier's comrade had helped get him all the way to Moscow in hope of finding room in a hospital. Now, the argument was over a place on the cart.

'But the man's dead!' said the limping dragoon's friend, indicating the middle of the three men lying on the cart. 'Throw him off and give his place to someone who still has a chance.'

'He's not dead,' insisted one of the cart-pullers. 'He's been like that for days, ever since we picked him up. If he was dead he'd be rotting by now. Your mate smells worse than he does.'

It was sadly true. The gangrene that had set in to the man's wound had most likely already spread far enough to take his whole leg, if not his life. I pushed my way forward to examine the man on the wagon.

It was plain enough to see; he was most certainly dead.

His face and arms and neck bore many cuts and scratches, but none that seemed to be the cause of his death. His dark-green uniform was stained with unimaginable amounts of blood, which may well have belonged to others, but, if it was his, explained not only his death, but also the terrible pallor of his skin. There was no sign of breathing, no hint of a heartbeat and his body was as cold as water. I lifted his eyelids and looked into his dead, threatening eyes. The huge black pupils – grown so large that his irises were obliterated – gave no response to the light of the sun.

'He is dead,' I announced, trying to convey an authority which would achieve the end of getting that poor, limping man on to the cart.

'So why doesn't he rot?' asked one of the men who had been hauling him across the city. It certainly was an odd phenomenon. It might have been the case, of course, that he had been alive when they started out and had only died recently, though to judge by his temperature, not all that recently – at least a day ago. But he was undoubtedly dead now.

'I don't know,' I said, giving the accurate impression that I didn't much care either. I began to drag the body from the cart.

'Wait!' The voice belonged to a priest who had emerged from somewhere amongst the onlookers. He spoke softly, but thanks to the resonance of his voice and the eminence of his occupation, he commanded immediate respect from the crowd.

'There may be a reason for this,' he said, approaching the body. He gave it much the same examination as I had done, but with a little more of the showmanship that, I am sorry to have to say, one expects from a priest. 'He is dead. The gentleman is quite correct.' People looked at me and nodded, happier with my conclusion now that it had been confirmed by someone they could trust. 'And he has been dead many days.' This was more than I had been prepared to venture. 'And yet the body does not decay.'

The priest lifted the corpse's hand and kissed it. He then took a step back from the cart and closed his eyes for a moment of silent prayer, opening them again to make his pronouncement.

'When a holy man dies – a man who is without sin or a man whose sins have been forgiven – then there is no need for his sins to leave his corporeal remains. The putrefaction of a man's body is caused by the departure of his sins. If there are no sins to depart, then there cannot be decay. I have seen this in the bodies of many departed priests and monks, but to see it in a common soldier is rare. And yet there is no reason why a soldier cannot be without sin. This man must have led the most saintly of lives.'

I missed the point completely. 'But now he's dead, he can still be removed to make way for the living,' I said.

'No, no, my son,' explained the priest, shaking his head with a paternal smile. 'The body of a man like this deserves greater respect than that of any living sinner. Leave him there. His blessings will spread to the two men who lie on either side of him. And to you too,' he added, turning to the two men pulling the cart.

Once the priest had spoken, there was no room for argument. The two men heaved and the cart trundled along down the street, accompanied by a swarm of believers, interested to see more of the miracle that the priest had just described. They would have been more at home on the streets of Nazareth than on those of Moscow. The wounded man and his companion continued on foot. His footsteps repeated in turn the abrupt click of his crutch, the firm tread of his booted right foot and then the long, pointless scrape of his dangling left.

I walked with them for a while, away from where I should have been heading, stopping every cart and wagon that came past to see if it had any room for an extra, wounded man. It was about the tenth one I asked that did and so we hauled him aboard. His friend thanked me profoundly and walked alongside the wagon with a new spring in his step. The wounded man didn't understand enough even to raise his head and look at me. Whatever last vestige of life remained in him had been wholly focused on walking, on keeping on walking, as he had done all the way from Borodino to Moscow. Perhaps now he was being carried, his last reason to stay alive had been taken from him. I doubted that there would ultimately be much difference in the fate of a dead man whose body did not rot and a live one whose leg was rotting away beneath him.

I turned around and headed back the way I had come. It was already past eleven, so I hurried to make it to my meeting with Vadim and Dmitry. I crossed the once beautiful Red Square which, now deserted, could be seen in all its glory. Yet that glory was reduced to almost nothing by the absence of any people to enjoy it or even to ignore it. Red Square was near the very centre of the city; a city that everyone was trying to leave. And so, like the eye of the most fearful storm, it was the quietest place on earth.

As I passed Saint Vasily's and moved on to the Moskva Bridge, which stood beside the Kremlin spanning the river, the swarming crowds began to increase again. All were heading in the opposite direction from me, slowing my progress. Amongst them were a hundred soldiers with a hundred stories, each as pitiful as that of the men I had just encountered, but none of whom I could help. I realized suddenly how pointless it was for me to fret over issues that affected me and only me when all around the life of every one of my fellow countrymen was in turmoil. My concern for Maks and my concern even for myself seemed to become lost in this sea of faces. What observer, seeing the bridge with any degree of perspective, could single me out from the crowds through which I pushed my way? To any outside viewer, the global impact of this migration of a city's populace would have far greater significance than not just my own story, but the story of any one of us. Moscow was dying, and what was the fate of any single Muscovite against that? One might as well consider the fate of the individual cells in that poor soldier's gangrenous leg and forget the impending death of the whole man. Even the Lord God, Who could see inside the soul of every man on that bridge, would surely see in mine no greater cause for interest than in any other.

The temptation struck me to just lie back, to let the flow of the crowd take me in a direction of their choosing, not of mine, since whichever way I went, no one would notice. But someone, I knew, would notice. God might not be able to act as a constant sentinel in each of our lives, but He appoints as His deputy ourselves. In the very act of asking who cares what happens to me or to Vadim or to Domnikiia or to the memory of Maks, I provided at least one answer: myself. And by even mentioning those names, I reminded myself of others who, if they were to view the Moskva Bridge from the surface of the moon, would still pick me out from those around me.

I pressed on. Looking across the river to the far bank, I saw Vadim and Dmitry waiting for me. I raised my arm to greet them, but I was not sure whether they had seen me. At that moment, a hand grabbed my coat.

I turned and saw that it was a wounded soldier, lying on one of the open wagons which had been rattling past. The traffic had stopped moving once again and the man pulled me towards him.

'You!' He hissed at me with unspeakable hatred. 'You fiend! You monster! You devil!'

He lay back again, exhausted by the effort of speaking, but the fact that he had said all this to me in French reminded me of who he was; for, the last time we had spoken, he had revealed to me an expert knowledge not of the French language, but of Russian. It was Pierre, the young French officer whose camp we had infiltrated, and whom we had left to the absent mercy of the Oprichniki.