Still the refuse of the retreating French lay by the roadside, and became ever more sickening. Even before Orsha, I had noticed more and more that the dead horses had not simply died; they had been butchered. I could not blame the starving, desperate soldiers for turning to eating their faithful former companions in order to save their own lives. It would have started out with the horses dying of cold or of starvation; only then would they have been seen as meat. Later, though, even healthy horses had come to be regarded as a source of food, and were slaughtered deliberately. Again, I could not blame the men who did that. It was some slight respite that, as I carried on along the road, the bodies of mares and stallions became fewer and further between.
But as I headed towards Orsha, those tell-tale signs that I had seen on the carcasses of horses now became evident on the bodies of men. As the last horses died, so one food supply dried up. The living, who had already learned how to extract something nourishing from the body of a horse, had switched to applying the same skills to the bodies of their fellow men. Starvation had led to cannibalism. As with the horses, it would have begun with the violation of the bodies of those who were already dead. It would not have gone on to killing men for their meat – surely.
Was this the beginning of the path down which the Oprichniki, or their ancestors, had once, long ago, embarked? But no. As I had seen in the barn, and as Pyetr had told me, the Oprichniki ate not for sustenance, but for pleasure. They could not be compared with the degraded, starving men who had turned in desperation to the flesh of their comrades. But then, I too ate for pleasure. Nourishment is a requirement, but it was only the tiniest fraction of the motivation behind any meal I had enjoyed in the lowliest tavern in Moscow. Was there some parallel moment in the histories of vampires and humanity when consumption was transformed from a necessity into a vice?
I was closing now on the rearguard of our own Russian armies, and the road became busier with stragglers trying to catch up and with couriers ferrying messages in both directions. Still no one bothered even to begin to clear up the mess that the Grande Armée had left in its wake; and nor did I. Bonaparte had not yet been vanquished. There would be time for clearing up later.
Two days out of Orsha, and still some way east of Borisov, I came upon a fairly large encampment of Russian troops. I rode up to the sentries and dismounted. It had already been dark for some hours, and they were wary of a man who did not wear a uniform.
'Password?' one of them barked at me.
'I've no idea, I'm afraid,' I told him, 'but here are my papers.' I handed over my credentials, which he inspected. They were clear enough to convince him of my rank and also gave him some idea I was not a part of the regular army. Beyond that, he judged it better not to ask questions.
'Can you take me to your commanding officer?' I asked him once he had returned the papers. He ran to a tent and returned with a young man of about twenty, in the uniform of a sub-lieutenant of the imperial guard infantry.
'Captain Danilov, I take it?' I acknowledged his greeting. 'My name's Tarasov. Pleased to meet you. So what brings a man in your line of business to the front line?' There was no sign of resentment in his words. He was a professional soldier, and understood there are many ways in which a man can serve his country. With a gesture of his hand, he indicated that I should follow him through the camp.
'I've come to fight,' I explained as we walked.
'I see,' he said, with a hint of disbelief. 'Fed up with the spying game then?'
'There's no one left to spy on.'
'There'll be no one left to fight soon, either, thank heavens. If I'd been in your shoes I'd have given it another couple of weeks and Bonaparte would have been long dead.'
'I need to feel the sword in my hand once again.'
Tarasov laughed the laugh of a man who did not, in his heart, understand my sentiments. 'Well, good for you,' he said.
'So what is the French disposition at present?' I asked.
'They're pretty much trapped at Borisov,' he explained. 'They were hoping to cross the Berezina there, but Admiral Tchitchagov got in before them from the west and burnt the bridge.'
'Do they need a bridge?' I asked. 'Surely the river must be frozen pretty solid by now.'
'Ah, no. They may have Bonaparte, but we have God on our side. Haven't you noticed the thaw?' I looked at him in his heavy greatcoat, hat, scarf and gloves. He was more sensitive than I if he could notice any thaw. 'The river was frozen, but it's flowing again now. They'll never get across.'
'So we're going in for the kill?'
'Well, we can't leave them there, can we? Kutuzov is coming in from the south as well. They're trapped.'
'And who's in charge here?'
'Wittgenstein,' said Tarasov proudly.
'So will Bonaparte fight?'
'He doesn't stand a chance. He'll have to surrender.'
'That doesn't sound like him. Maybe he'll head south.'
'It won't help him. The river just gets wider downstream. He won't find anywhere to cross.'
'Until it freezes again,' I put in.
'Then he'll freeze too.'
We had come to a tent. Tarasov went inside and then soon returned to beckon me in, announcing me at the same time.
'Captain Danilov, sir!'
'Thank you, lieutenant,' said the lieutenant-colonel who sat behind a makeshift table inside the tent. Around him, a number of other officers were standing or sitting. The relaxed atmosphere of the officers' mess filled the tent. 'Sit down, Danilov,' he continued, indicating a bench opposite him. 'I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Chernyshev, by the way.' I saluted him before sitting. 'Drink?' he asked.
'Thank you, sir,' I responded.
'Wine or vodka?'
'Vodka, please sir.'
'Good man.' He handed me a glass of vodka and also offered a cigar, which I took and lit from the candle on the table.
'So tell me, Danilov, who's your commanding officer?' asked Chernyshev.
'Major Savin.'
'Savin? Vadim Fyodorovich, you mean?'
I smiled. 'That's right. A friend of yours?'
'Oh, yes. A great friend – Petersburg man, like myself.'
'Me too,' I told him.
'Really?' His interest seemed to waver a little. 'Splendid.' Then, returning to the subject that interested him more, he added, 'So how is Vadim Fyodorovich?'
'He's dead, sir.'
'Ah!' Chernyshev took the news with the numbed resilience that I have seen in many experienced army officers. Through all his bluster and bonhomie, the death of each man under his command was felt deeply. The accumulation of deaths made it more painful, but gave him more experience of hiding that pain. Some feel they can never leave the army, for fear that the sorrow of all those accumulated deaths will be released if they do. For those who do leave, the failure of civilians to understand what they have been through can be the cause of even greater pain.
'So tell me, Captain Danilov,' continued the lieutenant-colonel, his brief mourning absorbed into the mass, 'why have you come to join up with us?'
I took a deep breath in preparation to give an answer that I did not know myself. Before I could begin, one of the other officers bent down and whispered into Chernyshev's ear. Chernyshev whispered back and nodded at the reply he got.
'Well, Captain Danilov,' said Chernyshev, 'it seems we have been struck by something of a coincidence.' He waited for me to respond, but there was little that I could say. 'I am told that there is someone in this camp who claims he knows you. A prisoner, no less. A Frenchman, no less!'