Here and there amongst the burnt-out buildings mementos of the souls that once inhabited them had survived the conflagration. China bowls and plates scattered the floor where the cupboards that had held them once stood. In one house a heavy oak table had survived unscathed while all around it had been consumed. In another lay a pile of empty book bindings, their paper contents burnt away while they had somehow survived. There were few that died in the fires. Even if Moscow had not already been abandoned by its people, fire in a tightly packed city is always more of a danger to property than to life. The fire is seen at the end of the street. The neighbours shout. People flee their homes and stand out in the road to watch. And still the flames have moved up the street by less than the width of a single house. The inferno moves as slowly as the tide, but with the same determination. The greatest risk to the onlookers is not the flames or the smoke, but the chance that an entire building might collapse outward into the street, crushing those who stand and gawp.
Where I was now, amongst the ruins, that scene of conflagration had been played out hours or even days previously. Elsewhere in the city, it was at that moment taking place. In the remains of some of the grander houses – grander before the fire levelled the homes of both the rich and the poor – crouched figures poked among the debris, scavenging for anything that might be of value. Some rich families had left their finest jewellery behind, hidden beneath floorboards or behind panelled walls. But they could not hide it from the fire. With the floorboards and the walls gone, all these things fell to the ground. Precious stones survived the flames intact; precious metals melted and reset, but lost little of their value for it. Those who scavenged risked burning their fingers on the still-glowing embers, but they thought it a worthwhile price to pay. Others were wiser, and sent their children to do the foraging.
Still wiser were those who foraged not for wealth, but simply for sustenance. In kitchen gardens – accessible from the street now that the houses to which they once belonged had been razed – men, women and children scrabbled for the few rotting cabbages and potatoes that remained, which they either ate raw immediately, or hid inside their coats to savour later. Whilst Russians scavenged both inside for jewels and outside for food, the French troops had no concept of the possibility of starvation, and concentrated in their looting only on what was traditionally valuable. In the weeks that were to come, many would discover that they would gladly exchange a ruby for a beetroot, or a diamond for a potato. A few would cling to their spoils for ever, deluding themselves to the last that a rich man can never go hungry.
It was Thursday and so our rendezvous was at the Resurrection Gate, the northern entry to Red Square. I arrived soon after eight, almost an hour before we were due to meet. The sun had already set and, as I stood and waited, looking at the weatherbeaten mosaic icons above each arch of the gateway, I was thankful that the fires had not got this far – at least, not yet.
One icon depicted Saint George, the city's patron saint, running his lance through the mouth of his monstrous foe, the dragon that lay spread-eagled, almost in supplication, beneath the hooves of the saint's steed. It seemed indisputably final – good, as is right and proper, vanquishing evil. But was there more to come? The dragon had its long, serpentine tail wrapped around the horse's hind leg. Was this just a last contortion of the beast's death agonies, or had the dragon conceived a plan whereby it might dismount its foe and, against probability and against legend, devour the saint? The icon illustrated just a single moment. We could see neither how the dragon and saint had arrived at this confrontation, nor how it was to be resolved. To find out, we have only the mythic tales – written by men, not by dragons.
With a smile, I allowed myself the indulgence of picturing me – Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov – as a modern Saint George, saving Moscow from a new spawn of monsters that were threatening it. They were not dragons but, it occurred to me, they had been brought here by Zmyeevich – the son of the dragon. Had it been his father that George had killed? Had he brought the Oprichniki to Moscow for revenge? I laughed out loud at the path my imagination had chosen, then glanced around; no one was there to have heard me. I wondered how an icon of me might look, doing battle with Matfei and Varfolomei in that cellar. Again, the iconographers would be able only to capture a moment. They would not show that it was I who, in part, had invited the monsters into the city, nor could they show, as yet, the final scene of the story. When and how would I feel the serpent's tail wrap around my ankle and drag me to my doom?
'It feels like it's been a long time, Aleksei Ivanovich.'
I turned. It was Dmitry. It had been six days since I had spoken to him and then I had felt a hatred towards him that I thought I could never overcome. It had begun to fade almost immediately but it had been a long six days, and now my opinion towards him hinged on one simple question: did he already know? I had worked alongside the Oprichniki for a few weeks and, although there had been many small things that had made me feel uneasy about them, it was not until I had seen Matfei in that cellar – in fact later, when I had seen his body crumble to dust – that I had known for certain what they were. Dmitry had known them for much longer. Could he possibly have avoided finding out? I had suspected right from the beginning that there was something about the Oprichniki that he was keeping from us, but never something like this. Perhaps he just had his own suspicions and had dismissed them as ridiculous. If he did know, then I had no idea what to say to him. If he didn't, then he had to be warned.
But when I looked at him, I felt another certainty. He was simply familiar old Dmitry; a man of reliable, almost mundane, simplicity. He was not a man who existed in a world of vampires. If he had known of it, it would have changed him, and I would have known. I stepped towards him and embraced him heartily.
'Oh, Dmitry!' I muttered into his shoulder. He flinched. It seemed that six days had done more to heal my mental attitude towards him than they had done to heal the physical injuries I had inflicted on him when we last met.
I took a step back. 'Are you all right?' I asked him.
'It still hurts a little,' he replied, without bitterness. 'You knew what you were doing.' I think it was meant as a compliment. He looked at me intently and his face showed concern. 'I think the question is better aimed at you. Are you all right?'
'I've been… busy.'
'You look terrible. Have you slept? Have you even eaten?'
Over the past days, I hadn't thought to consider my own circumstances. I had bought food, at preposterous prices, from marketplaces when I had had the opportunity. I had slept, but my rest had been disrupted as I had adjusted my sleeping pattern to synchronize with that of the enemy; not the French, but my new enemy, the Oprichniki. My body still ached with the bruises of my encounters with Varfolomei and Matfei. I had not washed. I had not changed my clothes. I had been sleeping first in a stable and then in a crypt. There had been no mirror for me to see myself in for days, but Dmitry's expression was mirror enough.
Dmitry fished into his pocket and brought out a block of something, wrapped in paper. He offered it to me. It was cheese. I sat down with my back against the Resurrection Gate, and ate it with a hunger I had not known was in me.
'I don't like to gloat,' said Dmitry, sitting beside me, 'but I've found this one of the easiest jobs I've ever had. Meet up with the Oprichniki of an evening, have a quick chat, and then let them get on with it. They're causing more havoc than we could ever do.'
'Yes,' I said forcefully, through a mouthful of cheese, 'and I've found out why.'