Jasper Kent - Twelve

'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.