And the way was straight; the ground was good. Lovingly, his forefinger traced the topography, the turns in the roads, the rises of hills and the steep defiles of creeks that fed the Po. Few men had The Sight he knew he did. Very few commanders could form a vision of the ground from a map, as if they'd walked it from a common soldier s level. Not many knew how steep and demanding a hill without ever first seeing it; could spot, as if inspired, where guns should go to support attack; or sweep the only route a foe would have for a counterattack. It was, to General Napoleon Bonaparte, such a simple, instinctive thing, to have this Sight. And he was sure after only a few days' manoeuvring that neither his opponent Marshal Beaulieu, nor any of his lesser corps commanders had it.
"Excuse me, mon gйnйral," Junot yawned. "They've signed. Piedmont is ours. And a courier has come from Commissioner Saliceti. He's on his way and will arrive around dawn, the courier estimates."
"Hah," Bonaparte grunted, abandoning his map, letting it curl back up like a loose sausage. "Saliceti."
The army's chief representative from the Directory was a criminal, a vainglorious coxcomb. His uniform was grander than Bonaparte's, replete with red-and-white sash, bullion-trimmed, and he sported a hat so aswim in dyed feathers he could be seen from a newfangled kilometer away. Saliceti would come, like it was he who was the conqueror, with purse and saddlebags open to scoop up the loot that Bonaparte amassed for him. A part of it, the young general suspected, never made it to Paris's coffers, but stuck to Saliceti's grubby fingers, too! He'd not made things so harsh for the Piedmontese they'd keep their backs up, after all. He'd omitted to list specific paintings, statues and valuables from Victor Amadeus's palace that Paris had wished "for the enjoyment of the French people." Or so the Directory claimed. There was sure to be a row over those. Well, then, so be it. He had a war, his war, to fight-his way. Let the civilians squabble over the remains of his victories.
"Anything from Paris?" Bonaparte asked hopefully.
"Nothing, sir," Junot had to admit. Nothing from the Directory, certainement; but that meant nothing for the general from his wife, the incomparable Josephine, either. Junot almost scuffed the toes of his elegant high boots in chagrin. The general wrote her daily, yet there were entire weeks between her replies.
"All, well," Bonaparte sighed, not showing his disappointment. "The envoys have their coffee?"
"Out, mon gйnйral." Junot brightened. "Though they might have felt insulted. We only had the poor cups from your portmanteau, with the brass army spoons."
"A smaller equippage than when I was an artillery officer," the young general said, feeling full of energy once more. "A tale to tell them, I think. I've made rough notes for the army's movements in the morning. Flesh them out for Berthier to pass on. A requisition upon Cherasco for eight thousand rations, four thousand bottles of wine, and for every civilians' boots. You must have it copied and passed to the town council at once. Along with the usual warning about resistance from the populace, in any form. Reissue my caution to the troops about rape, pillage I or indiscriminate looting, of course."
"Oui, mon gйnйral," Junot sighed, knowing he would be robbed of even a tiny nap the rest of the night and would slave far into a new day.
"… clerks to copy the route-marches for the day after, with a map of the roads to Piacenza for each chief of division," Napoleon rattled on, striding back towards the larger salon. "And invent for me a proclamation… to the people of Italy. Of Italy, mind, not the principalities, hein? Mention respect of property, of their religion and customs, and blah-blah-blah. To placate them. And stir up those who dream of unifying the whole peninsula. Even if it will be unified under French rule, Junot" Bonaparte snickered cynically. "Something about us, uhm… waging war with generous hearts, in there somewhere."
"Generous hearts, oui, mon general." Junot scribbled hastily, pacing alongside his shorter bantam-roosterish commander.
"… only against tyrants who seek to enslave us, not the common people… against all tyrants. That ought to stir up the shit-pot. Dash off something and show it to me before Saliceti arrives. I will be with these sheep-faced cowards 'til then. Sweetening their cup of gall we just forced them to drink, hein? And Junot?"
"Oui, mon general?"
"More coffee. A lot more coffee!" Bonaparte demanded, laughing out loud, for a rare change. "Ah, signoresl A momentary delay, sirs. Now I may have some coffee with you, if you will permit? Sorry about the spoons and poor cups, but a soldiers portmanteau … I now get along with less than when I was in the Royal artillery…"
And he whirled away, instantly affable, as if he'd just had seven hours sleep, alert and filled with energy.
To placate the vanquished.
Book III
Fuga sub terras, fuga nulla per aurus.
Nec lacrime (neferte preces) superive vocati
pectora nostra movent; aliis rex Iuppiter oris.
Faxo Bebrycium nequeat transcendere puppis
Ulla freturn et ponto volitet Symplegas inani.
No escape is there beneath the earth, none through the air
My heart is proof against tears (no groveling prayers!)
and appeals to heaven;
'tis elsewhere Jupiter counts for king.
I shall see that no vessel sails Bebrycian waters
and that the Clashers dance to and fro on an empty sea.
Argonautica, Book IV, 217-221