Having found his grip, Varfolomei finally dropped to the ground, bringing with him through the window the inert body of a soldier. The dark-green uniform revealed it to be an Italian – one of the many non-French nationals that made up almost half the Grande Armée. Varfolomei grasped him firmly by the collar of his coat. As the body fell, Varfolomei lost hold of it, and the soldier (a Carabinier, if I judged right, who could not have been more than seventeen) slammed to the ground. He groaned and tried to turn on his side. As I had seen before, the Oprichniki preferred their meals still to have a little life remaining in them.
Varfolomei knelt beside his prey, running his eyes up and down the young man's body and rubbing his own face and neck with a sense of urgent yearning. Again he called out to Matfei, generous enough to share his trophy with his friend.
'Matfei can't hear you, I'm afraid, Varfolomei.' I spoke with a confidence born out of my earlier battle, but not justified by the luck of my victory.
Varfolomei turned and rose to a crouched position, poised for an attack. He was, I think, the youngest of all the Oprichniki. That is, the youngest in appearance and therefore the youngest when he first met his death. Once preserved in that state he might have wandered the earth for centuries – longer even than any of the others – or for mere months. It was impossible to tell – and all guesswork on my part.
'Where is Matfei?' he asked.
I nodded towards the mound of clothes that lay discarded against the wall, coated in the powdery residue that was all there was of Matfei. 'Don't you recognize him?'
Varfolomei walked over and examined what remained of his comrade. His lip curled in an expression of distaste that was just what one might see when a human comes across the rotting carcass of an animal. There was a visceral disgust, but no sense of spiritual sympathy with the living being out of which those remains were formed. To me Matfei was merely dust; a dry powder that would soon be dispersed by the wind. To Varfolomei it was a memento mori, and his mood suddenly changed to one of devastation. He sank to his knees and picked up a handful, letting it run away through his open fingers as he inspected it in a hopeless search for some hint of remnant life.
'They told me I would live for ever,' he announced.
'Is that what attracted you to it?' I asked him.
'No. They said I would know no fear. Fear was my worst enemy.' He glanced towards me. I could not have been a very intimidating sight. I was unarmed and exhausted, my body slumped forwards and my arms resting on my knees. I could scarcely lift my head to speak to him.
'Fear of what?' I asked. Behind him, I saw the Italian roll on to his front and raise himself to his knees.
'Of consequence,' replied Varfolomei, with an ambiguity that implied he had thought about this many times before and chosen the word with care. The Italian was on his feet and was creeping towards Varfolomei with drawn sword.
'So you fear consequences?'
'I used to fear the opinions of my peers.' He raised his eyes from the dust in his hand and looked at me. 'Now I have new peers.' His hand slammed out to his side, hitting the Carabinier's chest and knocking him to the floor. It was a moment's distraction for Varfolomei, but long enough for me to shoot out my hand and grab what I needed.
'People like you used to despise me,' continued Varfolomei, rising to his feet, 'and I can tell you still do. But do you know what's changed? I don't care any more.' Behind him the soldier had risen to his feet. He did not bother to recover his sword, but began to shadow Varfolomei's steps as he approached me, always keeping a safe distance behind.
'You talk as if you care,' I said, rising to my feet. The reason that the soldier had not picked up his sword became clear. He was not stalking Varfolomei, but creeping towards the door. Now that he was within reach, he made a dash for it. He made his escape without interruption and we heard his feet race up the steps to freedom.
In his hurry, he had neglected to shut the door behind him. A fragile beam of the dawn's earliest sunlight shone through the door and into the cellar, a little way behind Varfolomei. He glanced behind him and his jaw tightened slightly, almost imperceptibly.
'And there seems to be something else you're frightened of,' I said, taking a step towards him. He could not move away from me for fear of stepping into the sunlight. There was, of course, little reason why he should move away. I could present no threat to him, but the army whose retreat is cut off will always have a greater fear of its attacker.
'It is nothing in comparison to what you have to fear.' There was no false bravado in his voice. He believed it and he was right. I could feel my own pulse in my neck as my heart attempted to prepare me for what was about to come. I took another step forward.
Varfolomei could either retreat or attack – and he could not retreat. I had deprived him of choice, and choice is a potent weapon of war.
Trapped, he launched his attack and threw himself at me with all his strength. I fell backwards, but as I did so, I raised my hand, presenting to his chest the sharp, pointed splinter of wood that I had snatched up earlier.
I hit the floor heavily, banging the back of my head against the ground hard enough that I feared I might lose consciousness, but throughout I kept the wooden stake pointed towards him. He fell upon me like a wild dog, his eyes ablaze with hatred and craving. I saw his mouth wide open, his fang-like canines descending towards my throat, preparing to rip it out, as I had seen Matfei do earlier. Then I felt an aching thump against the right side of my chest, almost like a stab wound, as the momentum of his body imparted itself to the stake and thence into me. But I had the blunt end of the stake to my chest, and although it might bruise, it did not pierce.
Since my body would not yield and nor could the wooden splinter itself, there was only one alternative. Varfolomei's body continued to descend towards me and I felt the wind punched out of me as his full weight landed, but his teeth made no attempt to connect with my throat; his eyes no longer looked on my face with either wrath or hunger. He was already dead. For his body to reach mine, the stake which I held out had been forced to pass through it. I had already learned by Matfei's death that the stake didn't need to be hawthorn; it just needed to pass through the heart. Varfolomei's death was mere confirmation.
I felt the weight of his lifeless body draped on me like an exhausted lover. Almost immediately, the load began to lighten. I heard a hissing sound, like running water – the dusty remains of Varfolomei's decayed body cascading off mine on to the floor. Just as they had with Matfei, the years of decay since his first, true death had come to his body in seconds. His head remained intact for a brief moment longer, his face staring into mine without even those basest and most basic of emotions which the Oprichniki could display in life. Then it collapsed, leaving only his empty clothing clinging to my body and filling my mouth with a dust that I leapt to my feet to spit out, wishing that I had a canteen with me to rinse away the taste. Not that it had much taste. It was the concept that I needed to wash away.
I left the cellar quickly, walked up the stairs and climbed back over the fence and on to the street. I walked a little way until ahead I saw a patrol of about half a dozen French heading towards me. At their head was a dishevelled young man who was shouting at them in an Italian which they little understood.
'It's this way. There were two of them. They were fighting over who should kill me.' It was the young infantryman who had just escaped from the cellar. I slipped down a sidestreet. As for the two that he thought had been fighting over him, I had escaped, and of the other he would find little but dust.