Where the Light Falls(109)

“My God.” One of their party could not hold back his astonishment upon entering the great hall.

André looked around, overcome, dazzled, incredulous. Circling the ceiling was a series of colorful paintings marking the great and sacred history of the island, and André felt a brief pang of guilt for traipsing into this place, a storied sanctum, at the forefront of a conquering army. His eyes drifted to the other end of the hall, and he counted thirteen men standing before them. Twelve of them were dressed exactly alike, much like the two giants who had guarded the door to this inner chamber. They stood behind an immense oaken table, their faces lined with age, yet free of any emotion or hint of expression. They wore the same white satin tunics emblazoned with red crosses across their chests. Around their necks they wore golden crucifixes that fell just below the tips of their graying beards. They were armed with bejeweled swords and ancient chain mail, and all appeared somehow alike, as if they could have been twelve brothers. The Knights of Malta.

André could have studied these twelve men and their otherworldly appearance for hours, but it was toward the thirteenth man that he found his eyes involuntarily drawn. The thirteenth man in the room—a separate figure who looked nothing like the other twelve.

Napoleon Bonaparte was as André had always heard him described: average stature but appearing smaller as he stood next to these leonine men in ancient mail. He was dressed in a dark blue frock coat with bright red and gold trim on his collar and down the sides. His waist was wrapped in a red and white sash, and a sheathed cavalry saber hung from his belt. On his legs he wore tight-fitting white breeches. His hair, a shock of thick black, fell just above his shoulders. In his hands he held a bicorn hat, removed out of respect, and the other officers entering the room followed his example.

What had drawn André’s eyes toward Bonaparte felt like some indefinable magnetic pull. It came, André realized, from the general’s facial expression: a look of supreme confidence. He was young, perhaps André’s own age, yet hardened beyond his years. His eyes, dark and alert, surveyed the room, taking in the appearance of the new entrants. When he saw André and his three fellow countrymen at the doorway he smiled, as if they were his oldest friends. André felt strangely buoyed by the smile, as if it bestowed an incontrovertible blessing. By stature, Napoleon may have been the shortest man in the room, and yet, André noticed, every single man in the room, even these somber knights, looked to him.

“Ah, and here they are now.” Bonaparte spoke with the faint traces of his foreign Corsican accent. He held out a gloved hand, summoning the new arrivals toward him.

“Your Excellencies.” Bonaparte turned toward the twelve knights. “Allow me to introduce four of my friends. Lords of France. We come bearing a precious gift as a token of our appreciation. And gratitude that you have let us dock in your harbor while we rest and replenish our supplies. Now, my friends.” Bonaparte angled his small narrow frame toward André and his three flabbergasted companions. “Who has the gift?”

None of them replied, the aide having mentioned nothing about gifts. Or knights. Or General Bonaparte.

“Well, then?” Bonaparte extended a small, gloved hand, his smile appearing suddenly impatient.

The aide stepped forward from the shadows. “He does, Your Excellency.” To André’s surprise, the aide had placed a hand on his own shoulder. André turned to the aide, his eyes spelling out his bewilderment.

“The pouch,” the aide whispered, and André remembered the small, heavy velvet bag in his hands. And then he understood.

“I do,” André blurted out, holding up the pouch.

“Bring it here,” Bonaparte said, with a quick flick of his wrist. André stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the general as he handed the velvet pouch forward. Bonaparte took the pouch in his hands. “Thank you, my lord.” He smiled, his dark eyes holding André’s for just a second in a steady gaze. In that moment, André was taken aback and found himself staring, mesmerized, at the short man before him, instinctively aware of the power and will in those dark, vibrant eyes.

Bonaparte turned abruptly and approached the line of knights, holding the pouch before him like a sacred object. “To the men carrying on the tradition of St. Paul himself.” He bowed his head as he would before an altar. “Please accept this ancient and sacred treasure of our realm.” The general placed the pouch in the hand of the knight nearest to him, offering it with another bow. The man murmured a quiet offering of thanks, his face as expressionless as stone.