'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.