'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!'

He seemed particularly aghast at the fact that the prisoner should be French, though it was well within the realms of likelihood. It suddenly struck me why he should have got on so well with Vadim.

'Did he give a name?'

'No. Tell him the details, Mironov.'

The officer who had just whispered to Chernyshev now addressed me. 'He came in about an hour ago. They caught him up on the hills to the north-east. He didn't bother to put up any kind of a fight at all. He gave no name. He's wearing a French uniform, rank of chef de bataillon. All he would say was that he wanted to speak to Captain Aleksei Ivanovich Danilov.'

'He knew I was here?' I asked.

'Evidently,' shrugged Mironov.

I had been in the camp less than an hour myself. It could only be that I had been followed. 'What does he look like?' I asked.

'I'm afraid I haven't seen him myself,' replied Mironov. 'Do you want me to take you to him?'

'No, not yet,' I replied, taking another sip of vodka. 'What time is it?'

'Just gone midnight,' Mironov told me.

'And when's sunrise?'

'Around eight.'

'I'll speak to him at seven. Where are you keeping him?'

'He's with the other prisoners.'

I thought for a moment before saying, 'Keep him apart from them. Make sure he's bound hand and foot. Put him outside somewhere, by a fire – keep him warm – but definitely outside.' I was imitating Maks' plan of months before. 'And be very, very careful with him. He's dangerous.'

'You know who it is then?' asked Lieutenant-Colonel Chernyshev.

'I believe I do,' I replied, puffing at my cigar.

Once again, I slept well. I was woken up around six o'clock and had time for a leisurely breakfast before Lieutenant Mironov led me to where the mysterious prisoner was being guarded.

'I hope you're not going to spend too long with him, Captain Danilov,' the lieutenant told me as we walked across the camp.

'The word is that Bonaparte is heading south. The French are trying to build a bridge.'

'And we're to follow?'

'Absolutely. Admiral Tchitchagov is shadowing him, on the other side of the Berezina. We're already beginning to break camp. We'll be on our way within four hours.'

'I assure you, lieutenant, I'll be finished with the prisoner by dawn.'

'I hope so, sir.'

We were now some way away from a large campfire which warmed me even at a distance.

'There he is,' said Mironov, nodding towards the fire.

Beside it stood two guards, weary from their night's vigil, but still alert enough that their prisoner had not escaped. Between them, sitting on a bench next to the fire, a tall man with his wrists bound was slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. His long blond hair, straggly and dishevelled, hung forward to cover his face. Even so, he was unmistakable.

'Is it who you thought it was?' asked Mironov.

'Oh, yes,' I replied.

CHAPTER XXX

'GOOD MORNING, IUDA,' I SAID, SOFTLY.

Iuda lifted his head. He looked decrepit. His hair was unwashed and matted, his chin was unshaven and his complexion was sallow – I doubted whether he had 'eaten' for days. His jaw was swollen with the bruise of a recent, heavy blow. Yet still he smiled.

'Good morning, Aleksei Ivanovich.'

'Has he tried anything?' I said to one of his guards.

'Nothing, sir. He kept asking when you would come, but I shut him up.' He mimicked the action of a blow with the butt of his musket. Iuda winced at the appropriate moment, joining in the mime so as to mock it. He glanced momentarily up at the guard's face, then averted his eyes.

'Was he armed?' I asked.

'Just this.' The guard reached into his knapsack and handed me the double-bladed knife that I had seen in Iuda's hand before. 'It's an odd thing, don't you think, sir? I can't see the practical use for it.'

'That's one of the things I intend to find out.'

'Do you want us to stay close, sir?' he asked. It was refreshing to be once again amongst men who were so trustworthy and so steadfast, though his suggestion might also have been motivated by self-interest. Keeping close to us would mean keeping close to the fire. Both guards looked pale and deathly cold, their greatcoats ' buttoned tight up to their chins to keep in what warmth they could. Even so, my own concerns overcame my sympathy for them.