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  'A little something in return for the demerits you so kindly provided for us.'

  Napoleon clenched his hands into fists on his lap, and lips compressed into a tight line. He felt his heart seethe with hurt and hatred.Then, as the bowl was passed down the table towards him, each cadet spat in turn into the bowl. The last cadet glanced at Napoleon, curled his lip and spat before shoving the bowl sideways. Napoleon glared up the table at Alexander, then, not trusting himself to control his feelings, he glanced down at the bowl.The porridge lay in a small congealed lump at the centre of the bowl. Glistening over it was a slick of white bubbly sputum. He felt sick, and close to throwing up.

  Alexander laughed. 'Eat up, Buona Parte! Or you'll never be more than a common Corsican runt.'

  Napoleon's hands flew up from beneath the table and seized the bowl. At the same time he felt a blow to his shin; a sharp and violent kick. He gasped in pain and his eyes flashed across the table to where Louis de Bourrienne was shaking his head at Napoleon.

  'Don't do it, Napoleon!' he hissed. 'You'll get us another demerit. At least.'

  Napoleon glared back, hands still gripping his bowl, his face chalk white with seething rage. Around the table the other cadets paused over their breakfasts, watching in eager anticipation for the storm to break.

  Napoleon closed his eyes tightly, and breathed in deeply through his nostrils as he fought to control a wave of emotion that felt far too big for his body. Slowly, it seemed, he fought for, and won, control over his rage and pain and began to think logically again. Louis was right. Now was not the time to react. To fight now, against overwhelming odds, was foolish. To do it in front of Father Bertillon would be rank stupidity.This was a battle best avoided, however much his heart compelled him to action. As his mind cleared Napoleon focused on the pain in his shin. Louis was right. Napoleon opened his eyes, looked across at his friend and nodded. His fingers relaxed, he let go of the bowl and returned his hands to his lap.

  'What? Not hungry?' Alexander called out. 'I might have known you'd have no stomach for it.'

  A ripple of laughter flowed amongst the other cadets and for an instant Napoleon felt the rage returning as he reacted to the accusation of cowardice. But then he knew what he must do. He would show these contemptible French aristocrats that he was better than them. That he had the courage to confront and overcome their attempt to intimidate him. Steeling himself, he drew a deep breath, picked up his spoon and scooped up a lump of porridge and spit. He glanced towards Alexander and smiled. Again, the other cadets tensed up, waiting for Napoleon to explode. Instead, he opened his mouth, raised the spoon and closed his lips over it. His tongue recoiled in disgust, but Napoleon forced himself to eat the porridge, slowly and steadily, and then return the spoon for some more.

  'Disgusting…' He heard someone mutter.

  He continued eating until the porridge was finished, and quietly set down his spoon. As he looked up he saw that most of the other cadets were looking at him with expressions of horror and disbelief. Some had not eaten their porridge, he noticed with delight. At the head of the table, Alexander glared at him, eyes filled with hatred, his neat fingers balled into a fist around his spoon. As their eyes met, a means of revenge occurred to Napoleon. A revenge that would be most appropriate indeed.

  Chapter 17

  'Be seated.'

  The class pulled out their benches and sat down, in silence, waiting for Father Dupuy to begin the lesson. The teacher folded his hands together, stared down at the ranks of faces and began in his customary manner.

  'Where did we end last lesson?' he asked. His eyes passed over the students, who were trying their best to be invisible, in their customary manner. Then Father Dupuy nodded at a boy on the back row. 'Alexander de Fontaine.'

  'Yes, sir?'

  Father Dupuy smiled. 'If you would be so good as to remind me of the point we had reached.'

  'Yes, sir.You were talking about the siege of Jerusalem.'

  'Indeed. And remind me whose work I was citing in describing the siege…' his eyes turned to another cadet, 'Buona Parte.'

  'Josephus, sir.'

  'Josephus, precisely.' Father Dupuy picked up the first notebook and flicked it open.'Which leaves me slightly perplexed by de Fontaine's prep from last night in which he quotes, at some length, from Suetonius' eye-witness account of the siege.'

  Alexander de Fontaine had some idea of what was coming and shifted uncomfortably on his bench as Father Dupuy paused for dramatic effect.

  'Clearly, Suetonius was blessed with a most precocious talent, since he would have been all of one year of age at the time of the siege of Jerusalem. Unless, of course, you are referring to a previously undiscovered historian whose translated works have only just become available in Brienne.'

  Alexander blushed. 'No, sir.'

  'I see.You are in error, then?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'In which case it is only fair that I award you one demerit. I suggest that you pay attention in my lessons from now on.' He picked up a pen, dipped it in his inkwell, and made a note against Alexander's name in the class record book, before looking up again. 'Come and collect your workbook.'

  Alexander scraped his end of the bench back and walked stiffly to the front of the class, mounted the podium to receive the book Father Dupuy held out to him, then turned and made his way back. From his desk Napoleon was delighted to see the attempt Alexander was making to hide his shame. Father Dupuy coughed.

  'In contrast to de Fontaine's entertaining but inaccurate effort, I am delighted to say that at least some students have managed to write thorough accounts of the siege. Notably Louis de Bourrienne, who has a fine style; clear and succinct and neatly written. For which he is awarded a merit. Here.' He raised the next workbook and held it out. Louis beamed at Napoleon, then rose from his seat and hurried forward to fetch his workbook.

  'And now we come to another cadet's work. Like de Fontaine, he seems to have had some difficulty in listening to instructions. Rather than relating the events of the siege this cadet decided instead to offer a critique of the defenders of Jerusalem.' Even though he spoke without meeting Napoleon's gaze, the latter shrank back a little behind his desk. Father Dupuy lifted the next book in the pile and weighed it in his hand as he continued. 'Of course, I had to struggle with the handwriting, which would do shame to even the youngest infant ever to hold a pen. But once I had deciphered the scrawl I am bound to admit that the analysis of the defence of Jerusalem was most sagacious for a cadet of his age. The prose style was not perfect, inclining as it did to a rather hectoring tone, but the argument was compelling.' Now he fixed his eyes on Napoleon. 'Cadet Buona Parte, you will make a fine staff officer one day, assuming you learn to write legibly. I award you two merits for your essay, but deduct one for your presentation. Please collect your book.'

  Napoleon had fully expected a tirade of criticism for his wilful departure from the task the class had been set. It took him a moment to accept that his work had been admired instead. Not only that, but he had won a merit. That would go some way towards rescinding the bad feeling he had caused at the morning parade. He stood up and made himself walk at a sedate pace to retrieve his workbook from Father Dupuy. On the way back to his desk he passed close by Alexander and their eyes met in a mutual glare of hostility. Napoleon realised that at least one of his fellow cadets bore him even more ill will than before. Alexander and his aristocratic cronies were going to make life very difficult indeed.

  That night, as Napoleon lay on his bed, he reflected on the months since he had arrived at Brienne. Not a day had passed without his thinking about Joseph and the rest of the family. Far from becoming used to his new life, as his father had promised he would, he had become steadily more miserable, yearning for what now seemed the carefree existence he had lived back in Ajaccio. He was far from the comfortable familiarities of home, in an alien world, surrounded by people who looked down on him as a crude provincial and treated him with haughty contempt. Only one fr
iend, and one teacher, stood between him and a terrible isolation.

  Napoleon felt his heart harden. Alexander de Fontaine needed to be taught a lesson. He needed to be knocked from that self-satisfied pedestal from which he looked down on the rest of the world. Napoleon had decided on his plan earlier in the day and refined the details in the hours since he had gone to bed, and now he waited for the tower clock to strike two, the very depth of night when all in the college would be still. Under the bedclothes he wore the garments he had brought with him from Corsica. For the task he had in mind he could not risk sullying any part of his Brienne uniform. So he lay still, his mind racing – partly from his restless temperament, and partly in order not to let sleep creep up on him. Then, as the clock struck two, he rose from his bed, carefully eased open the door to his cell and crept out into the still, silent shadows of the college.

  As a faint pink glow silhouetted the edge of the roof tiles, the cadets spilled out into the quadrangle to form up for the morning parade. From the end of the line Napoleon stood stiffly, trying hard to give the appearance of a model cadet. He had learned the lesson of yesterday and made sure that his uniform was clean and pressed for this morning. Beneath the cloth he felt his skin tingle with anxious anticipation and his pulse had quickened as he casually glanced at the last few cadets emerging from their quarters. So far no one had noticed anything unusual and Napoleon forced himself to keep still, and stop staring at the last of the cadets trotting across the quadrangle.

  'Where's Alexander?' he heard someone mutter.

  'No idea. Haven't seen him. He's cutting it fine. He'll be the last – there he is…'

  'Good God, what's happened to his uniform?'

  As the muttering increased around Napoleon, he thought it was safe to turn and stare along with the other cadets. Crossing the quadrangle towards them was Alexander. His face was a mask of cold fury, and his uniform was covered with dark stains and smears of what looked like mud, but as he approached his classmates and the smell hit them, it was clear that his uniform had been covered with something far more distasteful. A particularly pungent application of pig-shit, as Napoleon well knew. Not that there were any traces on him. He had scraped the filthy ordure from the sty belonging to a local farmer and brought it back in a wooden bucket, in which he had thrust Alexander's neatly folded uniform and stirred it around, before creeping to the water trough in the college stables by moonlight to clean the bucket and make sure that his old clothes were clear of any stains. Only when he was satisfied that no marks would betray him did Napoleon return to his cell and climb back into bed, excited and terrified by the deed he had just carried out, so that he only fell asleep a scant hour before the morning drum beat out its summons.

  Around Napoleon the astonishment of the cadets was turning into a growing wave of laughter and muttered ridicule. Alexander's expression crumbled and tears glinted in the corners of his eyes as he rounded on his classmates.

  'Stop laughing!' he shrieked. 'Stop it!'

  But the laughter only increased in intensity and with a convulsive shudder of his chest, Napoleon joined in, for once on the side of the majority. So this was what it felt like to be part of the crowd. He winked at one of the other boys and nodded in Alexander's direction.The boy, who had exchanged no more than a few words with Napoleon since he had arrived at Brienne, nodded and smiled back.

  'Who did this?' Alexander shouted, whirling round as his eyes swept over the other cadets, wildly searching out his enemy.'Who did this to me?'

  Alexander stopped and thrust out his arm towards Napoleon. 'You! You did this! It must have been you!'

  'Silence!' the duty teacher shouted as he hurried across the quadrangle towards their class. 'Get in line there! Hurry up!'

  For a moment Napoleon watched as Alexander's hands closed into tight fists and he seemed on the verge of charging at him. Then the larger boy became aware of the duty teacher's approach and, taking control of his anger, he went to his position. Before the duty teacher could reach them the director emerged from his office.

  'Get in line there!' the duty teacher yelled. 'All of you! Form up!'

  The last of the cadets' laughter died away and they hastily moved to their positions as the director strode across the quadrangle towards them, an angry expression on his face.

  'What is the meaning of this?' he shouted. 'What is this? A formal parade or a damned fishwives' market? Silence there! Stand still for inspection.'

  When all stood stiffly to attention, staring straight ahead, the director nodded grimly and began the familiar routine of striding down the ranks of each class, scrutinising the appearance of every cadet. When he reached Napoleon's class he had taken no more than half a dozen paces before he stopped dead and grimaced.

  'What is that stench? Which one of you is responsible?' He continued along the rank until he came to Alexander, and abruptly stopped.

  'Cadet de Fontaine, what on earth are you doing in that state?'

  'Sir, I – I,' Alexander stammered. 'I didn't-'

  'You smell like shit!'The director's tone changed from anger to astonishment as he continued, 'My God! It is shit.You're covered in shit. What is the meaning of this, Cadet? Looks like you've been rolling in it. How dare you present yourself on parade in this condition? Are you a gentleman or a common swine? Well?'

  Alexander opened his mouth to reply, then closed it and shook his head, as he stared straight ahead.

  'Very well,' the director continued harshly. 'Three demerits for Cadet de Fontaine. And two months confined to college.'

  He swept on, continuing the inspection, and Napoleon struggled to keep his face expressionless as the director turned the end of the line and strode towards him, pausing every so often for a closer glance at one of the cadets. When he reached Napoleon he paused, stared hard at the small Coriscan boy and nodded grudgingly. 'Much better, Cadet Buona Parte. It seems that you are learning the ways of your betters at long last. Keep it up.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  As soon as morning prayers were over and the cadets had been dismissed, Napoleon started towards his classroom, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. Napoleon stared into the white face of Alexander de Fontaine.

  'You little bastard!' Alexander hissed. 'I don't know how you did this.'

  'Me?'

  'I know it was you. Don't pretend it wasn't.'

  Napoleon smiled sweetly. 'Prove it.'

  'I don't have to.Who else would stoop to something like this?'

  'I don't know,' Napoleon scratched his chin, as if considering the question seriously.Then his eyes lit up.'Someone just like you perhaps?'

  The other boy's lips parted in a snarl and he started to raise his fist to strike Napoleon, in full view of the duty teacher. In a moment of pure delight Napoleon waited for his enemy to strike, a blow that would result in far greater punishment than he had received a moment earlier. But at the last instant one of Alexander's friends caught his arm and held him back.

  'Not now! Not here.' He glanced at Napoleon and continued softly. 'Later, when there are no witnesses. Come on, Alexander.'

  De Fontaine allowed himself to be firmly steered away and he made himself smile at Napoleon. 'Later then, Corsican.'

  'Of course.' Napoleon shrugged. 'If you are man enough.'

  'Man enough?' Alexander chuckled. 'Oh, yes. I'll be man enough. The question is, will you?'

  'I'll be ready.'

  Napoleon woke from his sleep with a start. Just for an instant he registered the presence of several dark shapes surrounding his bed. Then something dark was thrust over his head and before he could attempt to snatch it off, hands grasped his body and a fist slammed into his stomach, driving the breath from his body. As he groaned he was rolled on to his stomach and held down while someone roughly tied his hands behind his back.

  Then a voice whispered close to his ear, 'Keep your tongue still, if you don't want it cut out.'

  'You wouldn't dare,' Napoleon gasped.

  'Quiet
! Not another word from you. Or else.'

  Napoleon felt something jab into the small of his back, sharp enough to puncture his skin. He yelped and was rewarded with a hard slap to his covered head.

  'Next time you make a sound the blade goes in all the way.'

  Then he was lifted on to his feet, dragged to the door of his cell and outside into the corridor. They moved quickly and quietly and he guessed they must be barefoot. Down the corridor they went, to the top of the stairs and then down them at speed, Napoleon's feet scraping painfully on the edge of each step. A door opened and he felt a faint rush of chilly air. They were outside and heading along the side of the college buildings, then across some open grass.

  'Inside with him,' a voice hissed, and a door squeaked faintly on old hinges. Napoleon brushed against a rough doorpost and then he was thrown to the ground. The tang of horseflesh and manure filled his nostrils. He must be in a stable. There was the sound of a flint being struck, then the faint crackle of kindling before the flame was transferred to a candle whose wan illumination was just visible through the coarse material of his hood. Napoleon felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his ears had to strain to pick up the sounds around him. He was terrified. For the first time since he had been wrenched from his bed he feared for his life. Who would hear him out in this stable, even if he did scream for help?

  'You're to be taught a lesson tonight.You breathe one word of what happens and you'll pay for it. Do you understand?'