Twelve (5 page)

Maks seemed briefly surprised, but didn't take issue with me. 'OK.' He thought for a moment, feeling that more needed to be said. 'She's very nice, but then I'm sure they all are.'

We walked a little further until Maks filled the silence with, 'We talk about you, you know.'

'We?'

'Dominique and I,' he replied.

He told me, I think, to be kind – to flatter me – but all it did was bring to my mind the most bizarre and unpleasant images, along with, by some unfathomable route, recollections of the story of Oedipus. 'Jesus, Maks, no! Just leave it. Just don't talk about it. You've said you won't see her. That's fine. There are some things that just don't
need
discussing.'

I marched off and went back to my room, sat down, and wrote a letter to Marfa. Almost everything I wrote was untrue, so I tore it up.

The next day, things seemed back to normal between me and Domnikiia; better than normal even. I presumed the whole thing was forgotten.

'Maks came in today, but he went with Margarita.'

'OK,' I replied cautiously, wondering where the conversation was going.

'He's a good friend to you. He respects you.'

'You're happy with that?'

'That your friend does you a favour when you ask him? Why shouldn't I be?'

'So does that mean you're not my friend?'

'Do you want me to be?' she asked, looking directly at me. I thought for a moment about my answer, but before I could speak, she continued. 'It's either/or.'

I gave an exaggerated frown, and then smiled. 'Fair enough.' Then I changed the subject. 'Maks said there were more stories of the plague along the Don.'

'There are. Only it's not a plague and it's not just on the Don.'

'How do you know it's not a plague?' I asked.

'The way they die. It's all rumour. Some people are saying their throats are cut, others that they've been strangled, others that they've been attacked by animals. One story is that the French have sent saboteurs to attack us from the south.'

It sounded unlikely, but then it also sounded somewhat like what Vadim, Dmitry, Maks and I had been commissioned to do against the French. 'How do you know all this?'

'Lots of traders come to Moscow from Tula, leaving their wives safely at home. Or not so safely, now there've been deaths in Tula itself.'

'In Tula?'

'Yes. I looked at the places on a map. They follow the river Don. Rostov, Pavlovsk, Voronezh.' She turned to me and smiled. 'I looked at Petersburg, too. Is it nice there?'

'Not as nice as here,' I said, somewhat dismissively, but I was too concerned by what she was saying. 'And you say it's reached Tula?'

'Today someone mentioned Serpukhov; I haven't looked that up yet.'

'Serpukhov?' I was shocked. 'That's only about eighty versts away.'

'Really? Are you worried?'

I tried to be reassuring. 'No, not really. They're just rumours. You know what these peasants are like. Someone catches cold and it's a new outbreak of plague.'

But as I left her, I still felt in need of some convincing myself. Any concerns were, however, soon pushed to the back of my mind. That evening, the Oprichniki arrived.

T
HERE 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.