Twelve by Jasper Kent

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 Though the same mirth had been building up in me at first, it had been replaced by something much darker.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.
    'I'm sorry, Dmitry,' said Vadim. 'I know he's your friend and I'm sure he's a very brave man, but he does have a certain air of . . .' He searched for a polite word.
    'Pomposity?' suggested Dmitry, neutrally.
    Vadim smiled broadly and nodded. 'And those bizarre patronymics. Zevedayinich? Alfeyinich?'
    'I think he considers it his duty as a guest to make some effort with our language,' explained Dmitry. 'You should congratulate him for trying, even if he does get things a little wrong.' Zmyeevich could not really be blamed for his inability to correctly name the apostles in Russian. I had never in my life seen a complete Russian translation of the Bible, and I doubt whether such a thing existed.
    'And his own name,' I added with a laugh.
    'No, that's good Russian,' corrected Vadim. 'Zmyeevich is a character from one of the old ballads; Tugarin Zmyeevich.'
    That was why the name had seemed familiar to me, though I still couldn't remember the details. 'And was he the hero or the villain?' I asked. Vadim shrugged his shoulders.
    'I don't think that's where the name came from, anyway,' explained Dmitry with a condescending calm.
    'Are they the same men you fought with before?' asked Maks, who had recovered his power of speech, although he was still unable to share the mood of good humour.
    'Four of them, I think,' replied Dmitry. 'Pyetr, Ioann, Varfolomei and Andrei, although they didn't go by those names before. And Foma looks familiar but . . .' Dmitry looked suddenly pale, almost as if he was about to be sick, but he quickly recovered himself.
    'No, he wasn't one of them. To be honest it's hard to remember. None of them made much impression on me. They're not exactly keen on conversation.'
    'We'd better go back in,' said Vadim, who had calmed down by now.
    Inside the room, the atmosphere had cheered a little. All twelve of the Oprichniki were again laughing, again in that way that groups of men do, in order to be seen laughing by the others. Our entry, if it