The inspection came to an end as the director mounted the steps to a small wooden podium and offered morning prayers. As ever, Napoleon's mind blanked out the sense of the words echoing across the quadrangle. He had little time for religion, considering it to be one of the greatest inefficiencies afflicting mankind. Imagine, he mused, how many more shoes a cobbler could make, how many more pages an historian could write, how many more miles an army could march, if they were only spared the hours demanded of them by the Church. Life was brief enough as it was, and a man should make the best use of the time he was given.
The prayers ended, and as soon as the director has disappeared back into the administration building, Father Bertillon dismissed the cadets to breakfast. They streamed back into the hall below their cells and silently went to their places at the two rows of long wooden tables. Once all were present, Father Bertillon said a brief grace and gave the word that they could sit. A deafening shuffle of boots and scraping of benches filled the hall. The cadets began to speak – quietly at first, then growing in volume until it echoed off the walls.
The door to the kitchen swung open and several sweating boys entered the hall carrying steaming pots of porridge. They heaved the pots up in front of the senior cadet at the head of each table. At Napoleon's table, that was Alexander de Fontaine, and Napoleon sat several places down from him. On the table in front of each cadet was a wooden bowl, spoon and cup. A jug of watered beer stood in the centre of the table, and as the porridge arrived this was passed round to fill the cups. As yet, no one had spoken to Napoleon but the atmosphere amongst his comrades was hostile and there was little of the usual carefree chatter. That did not bode well, and Napoleon wondered what kind of retribution they would impose on him for placing their class at the bottom of the merit table.
'Pass your bowls!' Alexander called out, standing over the pot, and stirring its contents with the ladle, releasing a fresh swirl of steam. The cadets shoved their bowls up towards him and each was filled in turn before being passed back, starting with those closest to the head of the table. Napoleon, still considered to be the new boy, was last in line and as Alexander reached for his bowl he looked down the table and his lips parted in a malicious grin. He raised the ladle so that all could see what was happening, and then poured a far smaller portion into Napoleon's bowl than had been given to the other cadets.Then he leaned over the bowl and spat into it.
'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.'