Twelve by Jasper Kent Read Free Book Online

greeting Dmitry with the warm hug of an old friend – a hug which Dmitry did not quite return. He was an impressive man. His age could have been anywhere between fifty and seventy. A domed forehead was underlined by thick, bushy eyebrows which topped a thin, aristocratic nose. Arched nostrils were almost hidden by a long moustache of dark iron-grey, which contributed to a general air of unkemptness. The moustache, like his hair, was unevenly trimmed, due perhaps to the lack of a mirror on his long journey. The general appearance of nobility fallen on hard times reminded me of the fleeing French aristocrats who had begun to arrive in Petersburg during my youth.
    Dmitry introduced him to each of us in turn. In his reaction to us, he seemed to both mimic and amplify Dmitry's own attitudes. To Vadim, he showed respect and, without any explicit signals such as a salute or a click of the heels, greeted him as one old campaigner greets another. Of Maks, he was almost dismissive.
    As he came to me, he took my hand in a firm grip and patted me on the back. I noticed his broad, squat fingers and coarse, dirty nails, which again contrasted with his refined demeanour. 'Aleksei Ivanovich, I'm very happy to meet you at last,' he said with a wide smile. As was to be expected, we all spoke in French. None of us understood the language of his country and there was no reason to suppose that he or any of them would know Russian – in that respect they had something in common with many of the Russian nobility. 'Dmitry Fetyukovich spoke frequently of you as we fought side by side against the Turk,' he continued. 'His friend is my friend.'
    Our side of the introductions was complete, and the stranger fell silent. Vadim was the first to speak. 'Forgive me,' he said, 'but we still haven't heard your name.'
    'My name?' he replied, as if surprised at even the suggestion that he might have a name. I glanced over to Dmitry, who surely must have known the visitor's name, but he was staring at the ground as though embarrassed.
    'My name is Zmyeevich,' announced the stranger with a sudden resolution. It was not a genuine Russian name, although somewhere at the back of my mind it struck a distant resonance with memories from my childhood. Literally, the meaning was simple – 'son of the serpent'. I could only guess that it was a direct translation of his name from his own tongue.
    He followed us to the private room in the inn that we always used for our meetings. As they trooped in behind him, I got my first real glimpse of his twelve companions. While he had the manner of an officer who had seen better days, they seemed to me as men who had never risen above the gutter. All were scruffy and dressed without style, or at best with the style of peasants. They shuffled, round-shouldered, into the room, failing to make eye contact with any of us. They might be mistaken for a gang of convicts except that their failure to look up at us came not from respect or even fear, but simply from an utter lack of regard for our existence. Though not tall, each was broad and stockily built. I would have feared them in a contest that depended solely on brawn, but not in one of wits. They were not the type that I would expect to see in the officers' mess.
    Only the last of the twelve showed any interest at all in his surroundings. He was taller than the others, though not as tall as their leader, and was marked out by his long, blond hair. The others all had their hair cut short, no doubt to reduce the numbers of lice which I felt sure would otherwise have infested them. As this last man entered, his eyes rapidly glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings and briefly scanning the faces of the four Russian officers whom he was meeting for the first time. Then his eyes dropped and he sat down, taking on the same cowed posture that his comrades had borne all along.
    Maks muttered a single word in my ear: 'Oprichniki.' Despite their lack of character, there was still a