But now that Napoleon and his army were on the march (or on the run, to be specific) there was no time for decorum. Family traitors were dealt with en route, and handy trees roped in to hang them from. It made a very public point but proved a bad idea in terms of time-saving. Lazarans, even this new breed of demi-Lazarans, took a frustratingly long time to die by strangulation. In the end, troops were called in to tug on the feet till the head came off.
Yet Bonaparte’s devilish luck still held. Even such sordid spectacles proved grist to the Imperial mill. As it passed by the army reflected that if the Emperor behaved thus to his own kin, then what mercy could others hope for? Their resolve about marching into Muscovite mists temporarily stiffened.
However, like all moods, that passed, to be replaced by something more truculent as the first snows started to fall. Casualties due to cold began and mass desertions occurred for the hovering clouds of Cossacks to hunt down. Like some put-upon mule, the army slowed and then finally stopped dead without being told to.
The Emperor was equal to it. He knew that swine sometimes needed the food-pail rattled to tempt them on. The regiments were gathered round and megaphones set up for him to address as many as possible simultaneously.
For the occasion, the survivors of the Imperial family purges stood in a semi-circle around their father, radiating a personal chill to add to the winding-down-towards-winter steppe ambience. Their gold braid and lace and scarlet finery not only failed but actually highlighted their feeble frames and parchment faces. The whinging military wilted under their inhuman steady stare.
Even so, now was the time the generals found collective strength to hold their ground, to bring their private grumbling out into the open. The Emperor had carried them this far via a dazzling series of manoeuvre victories which left the Allied armies behind, bruised and baffled. That campaign right the length of Europe probably constituted the technical summit of his career—but what had it gained them or him in the long term? Those enemy armies weren’t going away. They remained strong enough in conjunction to crush this last Grande Armée. It was even said a Neo-Wellington had been raised, in contravention of all the anti-Revivalist legislation, to supervise that end-game.
Meanwhile, deep in enemy territory, all Napoleon’s men could see was the scorched earth of Mother Russia and signs of the onset of that infamous winter that had swallowed an entire French invasion last time around.
‘What’s this?’ called out a junior general. ‘1812 all over again?’
That first brave voice of protest was supported—once he wasn’t immediately shot down. Murmurs mounted into cacophony.
The general thrust was that Napoleon was adding to the world’s sum of stupidity and that his rank and file were… well, concerned about this. Apparently, they were concerned to the point of mutiny and stringing him up.
Then Napoleon stood and, through pure personal force, silenced them—for a moment. Which was enough.
In deference to decency and Imperial dignity rather than to the cold, he was clothed in a wrap-around coat of cloth of gold. The Emperor drew it about himself and plunged one hand within to strike an iconic pose.
‘Frenchmen!’ he roared, in a voice not in keeping with his shrunken state. ‘Citizens! Friends! You have come with me this far. We have prevailed against invincible odds with the proverbial two men et un chien. You have shown faith! And now I shall repay that faith. Men unborn will count themselves cursed that they were not here today. And that is because this day I will take you into my confidence—as friends do…’
The soldiers and all within earshot looked from one to another. This was new. During the Revolution and then under the Convention, the great motivator was fear. With the Emperor it was fear and orders. Plus excitement sometimes, from jumping aboard the speeding stagecoach of the Imperial project. But as partners? ‘Friends’ even? They thought not. Here was heady novelty—enough to postpone the shouting and prolong listening.
Neo-Napoleon had perfect timing, both on the battlefield and as a demagogue. He’d paused for effect and then suddenly plunged in.
‘I have brought you back here to a purpose: an end; namely the end thirty years ago of my first Grande Armée. But also to a new beginning. That army, the biggest and best—present company excepted—army that France ever raised, is still with us. It lies here! The corpses of half a million elite warriors reside in pits from here to the outskirts of Moscow. They are as I left them—preserved in perfect state by that same cold which killed them. Do you not see?’
A few did already, and most had a glimmer. They looked around at the birch forest and each green bulge in the ground, seeing everything anew and replete with potential life—of a kind.
‘We have with us,’ the Emperor continued, his voice rising, ‘the last of Europe’s Revivalists: the cream of the Compeigne and Versailles factories. Elsewhere, they are all in disgrace or the grave! Now do you see?’
Now far more did. A buzz of excited chatter grew.
‘They—they—the dull, the reactionary, the mundane, have driven us to the fringes of civilisation, thinking that our dreams will die here. Little do they know. Little do they know me! Reinforcements await us for the asking. Unanswerable reinforcements! We shall revive them!’
All but the hard-of-understanding now understood. They cheered. Hats took to the air.
‘Friends!’ said Napoleon. For I now call you “friends”: a band of brothers! Do we seek to conquer Russia?’
They weren’t sure. Some, carried away, yea’ed. The majority, unsure, hesitated.
‘No, we do not,’ the Emperor answered for all. ‘That can come later. That is mere detail. No, the reason we have come here, together, is to claim our own, our right! Today, a new army. Tomorrow, the conquest of old Europe. And then? Who knows? But I promise you this: there will be medals—and looting! And burning cities! And willing women! There will be immortality. There will be purpose to life. There will be glory!’
He had them then—just as soon he would have many, many more. A whole dead Grande Armée’s worth. Wild cheering scattered wild animals in the forest for miles around.
Wearied, Napoleon slumped back onto his folding seat, but he was smiling. As was—almost—all his army.
The exceptions to that were Napoleon’s children. They were glad but did not exult. It was not in their nature.
The neither living nor dead Imperial offspring looked upon the (possibly their) world with fresh hope. And fresh hunger.
One day all this might be theirs.
THE END