Where the Light Falls(108)

The aide who was leading them on this strange journey now paused to take a drink of water from his canteen, so André did the same. Wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow, the aide broke the silence. “Now, then, I would not have put this question to you in front of the enlisted ranks, but this is of the utmost importance: who here is of noble birth?”

None of the officers answered. Some of them fidgeted; one let out a cough, which echoed off the ancient walls and empty square. Exasperated, the aide sighed. “I assure you, on the honor of our esteemed General Bonaparte himself, this is no trap. The political concerns of Paris hold no import here; this is a matter concerning the success or failure of this mission. Now, I ask again—surely some of you must have belonged to the old aristocracy—who among you is noble?”

Still no one stepped forward.

“Mon dieu!” The aide, frustrated, pressed his hands together. “How about if I begin the confession? I am of noble birth. My former title was Gerald Joseph-Etienne, Comte de Landeville. Now, who else?”

One of André’s companions raised a tenuous hand. “I am,” he said, his tanned skin matching the chestnut tint of his hair.

“Good! Come closer to me, please.” The aide waved the man to his side. “Who else?” He looked over the group. Two others volunteered their secret, stepping forward. André held his silence.

“That is all? Only three of you?” The aide looked intently at each of them. There was silence for several moments.

“I am,” André said eventually, stepping forward.

The aide looked him up and down. “Good,” the man said. “Anyone else? No? Very well, the rest of you stay here. Keep your guard up, but speak to no one. General Dumas shall arrive from the beach shortly. You are to obey his orders without delay.”

And suddenly, the aide had an interest only in the four men who stood beside him. “Now then, come with me, my lords.”

André obeyed, growing more confused with each passing moment.



The domed building was more massive on the inside than it had appeared from the square outside. Here, the insignia of the Maltese flag, the ivory cross outlined in scarlet red, was everywhere. The only symbol more ubiquitous than the flag was the crucifix, which seemed to adorn every doorway, every alcove, every gilded corner. The building was quiet, dark, and cool, and André blinked as his hazel eyes adjusted after the stark midday sunlight of the square outside. It was also, he noticed, completely empty.

They walked for what felt like ages, and yet they never left the building. The soldiers’ boots clicked on the cold marble beneath their feet, echoing off walls that were covered in glossy oil paintings and ornate wooden carvings. They crossed room after room until, eventually, they came to a long passageway.

Their French guide, seeming perfectly familiar with the building and how to reach his destination, led his four confused noblemen down the dimly lit hallway, the candles tucked in sconces flickering erratically to their left and right.

At the end of the hallway waited yet another closed door. This one was as large as all the others, but entirely different, for in front of it stood two very tall men. At first André supposed these figures to be statues, so fixed were they in their rigid, sentry-like stances. But as he approached, he saw that they were, in fact, living men. Two guards who appeared to be from another age of the world, each dressed in a white satin tunic with large scarlet crosses emblazoned across their broad chests. They wore swords in scabbards at their waists and the mail of ancient crusaders on their torsos.

The aide paused before these two massive sentries, straightening his own posture but still falling short of their immense frames by many inches. “Your Excellencies.” He made a grand bow. “I bring with me four noble lords of France, here as the honored guests of General Napoleon Bonaparte.”

André could have fallen over. Did Napoleon Bonaparte stand on the other side of this heavy wooden doorway? And if he did, then why was he, André, being admitted to see him? Just the day before he had been little more than a prisoner scrubbing seagull waste. A captain reinstated only today—if, in fact, he had been reinstated at all. And now, a noble lord and honored guest of the Supreme Commander General Bonaparte?

André tried to stifle the expression of utter bewilderment that he was certain had fixed itself on his features. To his further astonishment, the two armed men guarding the door simply nodded, putting their massive, pawlike hands to the burnished doorknobs and opening the door in a gesture of perfectly coordinated fluidity.

“Here, take this.” The aide was beside André now, and as they crossed the threshold, the man stuffed a small velvet pouch into André’s hands. “Do not speak until you are addressed.” André looked from the pouch to the aide, confused, but before he could open his mouth to inquire as to the meaning of the small, heavy parcel, the party was ushered through the great door into the adjoining room.