From people I spoke to along the way, I learned that it was not just frost and starvation that was killing the retreating French; it was the Russian peasantry as well. When the French passed through a village they were welcomed with open arms, given food and brandy and put into a warm bed, only to have their throats slit or receive a bullet to the head as they slept. I recalled the hanging body of the French captain who had been lynched at Kurilovo. There was no reason that the serfs should have any sympathy for the invaders. Even if they did, they would still follow their master's orders and kill them without pity.

It took me three days to get to Smolensk. Fresh horses and accommodation were not plentiful along the way, but they were sufficient. It had been two weeks since the French had passed along that road. What had been a hostile trail through an unfriendly foreign land for them had, of necessity, become a vital supply line for the Russian forces that pursued them. Horses and victuals that had been moved away from the road during the French advance had surged back in after their retreat, as though Napoleon were Moses leading his army of Israelites across the Red Sea, except that what was drawn away in advance of him and returned behind him would have brought life, not death to his army.

Smolensk was changed in much the same way that Moscow had been – it was ruined and burnt. And whereas Moscow had been freed from French hands after only five weeks, Smolensk had been held for three months. The final days of the occupation had seen a complete breakdown in discipline as the cold, beleaguered, frightened remains of Bonaparte's army had ransacked the city that they passed through in their retreat. There had been less than two weeks for rebuilding to take place. It was in a worse state than I had ever seen Moscow.

I went to the inn from where Dmitry had sent his letter. I had stayed there earlier in the year, but I did not recognize the proprietor. A brief conversation with him revealed that his predecessor, a cousin of his, had been killed in the first French attacks. There was a letter for me from Dmitry, dated two days before.

Aleksei,

Sorry for not staying to wait for you. It's not that I'm impatient or doubt you will come, but I have discovered the precise whereabouts of Foma. He and Iuda had been together, but now I cannot find any trace of Iuda. If I can capture Foma alone, then I may be able to use him as bait to tempt Iuda into the open. If not, I will have at least reduced their numbers by one. In either case, I would appreciate your help. Out here, our list of places to meet has become very sparse. I will try to make it to the farmhouse north of Yurtsevo (U1) and wait there as long as possible.

As ever,

Dmitry.

Yurtsevo was another two or three days' journey to the west. I was cold, tired and saddle-sore. I spent a long, well-earned night in Smolensk before continuing after Dmitry. His plan was at best foolhardy. Capturing Foma might not be impossible, but were I to catch him, I would not keep him alive for long enough for Iuda to come to his aid. I would kill him within seconds. Better yet, I would kill him before he even knew I was there. Whatever desire I might once have had to allow these creatures to be aware of their deaths was now lost in the pragmatic expediency of my own fear.

The idea that Iuda would put his own life at any risk for any of his fellows was the most laughable part of Dmitry's scheme. Of all the Oprichniki, Iuda was the least human – the least likely to be swayed by any sense of camaraderie or partnership. But Dmitry had asked for my help, and I had to give it. I had little interest in small fry like Foma, but if he or Dmitry had any clue as to where I might find Iuda, then that would be of help to me.

Early the next day, I set out west once again. The ground was still frozen to iron and the wind still blew a blizzard that would cover with snow anything or anyone that remained unmoving for more than a few minutes. Yurtsevo was only a few versts north of the city of Orsha. The going that far was relatively easy, always downhill along the Dnieper valley, with plenty of places along the way to get a meal and a fresh horse.

The road to the west was still lined with the bodies of horses and men. Many of the men had been stripped of their possessions and even their clothes. I was not chauvinistic enough to believe that such desecration of the French dead could not have been perpetrated by Russian peasants or even by Russian soldiers, but it would have been their fellow Frenchmen who had the first opportunity to plunder the bodies of their fallen comrades, and they too who were in the direst need of extra clothing.

I was in Orsha in two more days, and after resting the night there, I set out on the final leg of my journey, to Yurtsevo. This was no longer a route of well-trodden roads between large, populous towns. When we had drawn up our list of meeting places, we had had little idea whether we would be meeting under the benign reign of Tsar Aleksandr or under the occupation of the invader Bonaparte. Moreover, it had been under a glorious summer sky that we had made our plans. Then the road from Orsha to Yurtsevo would have been a pleasant one through verdant woodland. Had we known the eventual circumstances, we would have chosen to meet by the largest fireplace inside the warmest tavern in Orsha. As it was, we had chosen a place where a man could die in November and be discovered in a state of perfect, frozen preservation the following March. But at least the road was no longer one that had been trod by the French, and so too it was no longer paved with carcasses of horses and of men. Even so, this slight recompense was soon forgotten in the face of the gnawing cold.

I began to doubt whether there was any point in my continuing when the depth of the snow reached up to my knees – and taking into account that I was still mounted on my horse. I had tried dismounting and leading my horse through the great drifts of snow, and for a while we had made swifter progress. But in places the snow was so deep that it would have been above my head. The prospect of me reaching the rendezvous was bleak, and even if I did, I was in grave doubt as to whether Dmitry would have made it there too. On the other hand, I believed that I was now nearer to Yurtsevo than I was to Orsha, and so to advance was the most sensible option.

The snow grew deeper. There were times when the drifts were so high that we had to plough through them like a ship frozen fast in the icy Baltic. The top of the snow was higher than my horse's head and it was only down to the sense of either trust or fear that she held for me that I was able to coax her to walk onwards along a path she could not see. Through half a dozen layers of clothing, the cold bit into me with a carnivorous aggression. How my horse bore it, I cannot tell.

It was after nightfall when I first saw the lights of the village. On any normal night they would have been a beacon to guide us home, but through the blowing snow they were but a glimpse, to be seen one moment and gone the next. Having first seen them, though they then disappeared, I headed towards them. Five minutes later I saw them again, this time to the left and further away. I spurred the horse and she grudgingly turned towards the lights. The wind and snow lashed against the tiny gap between my hat and my collar from which my face peeped out. It would have been more comfortable to be whipped across the eyes than to endure that frozen blast.

It was another ten minutes before I saw the lights of the village again. This time they were closer, but still to the left, at right angles to the direction in which we had been heading. I tried to turn my horse once again, but she would not move. It was no stubbornness on her part, she was simply stuck fast. She tried to neigh, but the sound was muffled by the insinuating snow that filled her mouth and nostrils. I dismounted and found that I could no longer see the village lights. I was in a snowdrift of which the top was way above my head. I scrabbled through the mountain of snow before me, tearing out handful after handful and casting them aside, but new snow built up far, far more quickly than I could disperse it. Soon, I could move neither my legs nor my hands. With each movement I made, the snow froze even harder to ice and tightened its grip upon me. I would be moving no further that night, and if I did not move that night, I would never move anywhere again. With hope gone, the cold seemed to double in its intensity, and I knew that I would quickly succumb.