The Eight

by Katherine Neville

  “You think the Convention will vote for the king’s death?” said David, changing the subject from the painful thought of Valentine’s death, which he’d barely been able to keep from his mind all these months.

  “A live king is a dangerous king,” said Robespierre. “Though I’m not a proponent of regicide, there can be no question from his correspondence that he was engaged in treason against the State—as was your friend Talleyrand! Now you see that my predictions about him were true.”

  “Danton sent me a note requesting my presence tonight,” David said. “It seems there’s some question of putting the king’s fate to a popular vote.”

  “Yes, that’s why we’re meeting,” said Robespierre. “The Girondins, those bleeding hearts, are supporting it. But if we permit all their provincial constituents to cast a vote, it will be a landslide return of the monarchy, I fear. And speaking of Girondins, I should like you to make the acquaintance of that young Englishman coming toward us—a friend of André Chénier the poet. I’ve invited him here this evening so his romantic illusions of the Revolution may be shattered by seeing the left wing in action!”

  David saw the tall, gangly youth approach them. He had sallow skin, thin lank hair that he pushed back from his forehead, and the habit of stooping forward as if ambling over an open pasture. He was dressed in an ill-fitting brown frock coat that looked as if he’d picked it up in a ragbag. And instead of a foulard, he wore about his neck a knotted black handkerchief, rather the worse for wear. But his eyes were bright and clear, his weak chin counterbalanced by a strong and prominent nose, his young hands already marked with the calluses of those who’d grown up in the country and had to do for themselves.

  “This is young William Wordsworth, a poet,” said Robespierre as the youth came up to them and took David’s proffered hand. “He’s been in Paris for over a month now—but this is his first visit to the Jacobin Club. I present Citizen Jacques-Louis David, former president of the Assembly.”

  “Monsieur David!” Wordsworth cried, pressing David’s hand warmly. “I had the great honor to see your painting displayed in London when I was down from Cambridge—The Death of Socrates. You are an inspiration to someone like myself, whose greatest wish is to record history in the making.”

  “A writer, are you?” said David. “Then as Robespierre will agree, you’ve arrived just in time to witness a great event—the fall of the French monarchy.”

  “Our own British poet, the mystical William Blake, has published last year a poem, ‘The French Revolution,’ in which he proclaims, as in the Bible, a visionary prophecy of the Fall of Kings. Perhaps you’ve read it?”

  “I’m afraid I devote myself to Herodotus, Plutarch, and Livy,” said David with a smile. “In these, I find adequate subject matter for my paintings, being neither a mystic nor a poet.”

  “That’s odd,” Wordsworth said. “For in England we’d believed those behind this French Revolution were the Freemasons, who must surely be counted mystics.”

  “It’s true most of us belong to that society,” agreed Robespierre. “In fact, the Jacobin Club itself was first founded by Talleyrand as an Order of the Freemasons. But here in France we Freemasons are scarcely mystics—”

  “Some are,” David interrupted. “Marat, for example.”

  “Marat?” said Robespierre with raised eyebrow. “Surely you jest. Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “In fact, I came here tonight not only at Danton’s behest,” David admitted reluctantly. “I came to see you, for I thought perhaps you could help me. You referred to the—accident—that befell my ward at l’Abbaye Prison. You know that her death was no accident. Marat purposely had her questioned and executed because he believed she knew something about … Have you ever heard of the Montglane Service?”

  At these words, Robespierre grew pale. Young Wordsworth glanced back and forth between the two men with an expression of confusion.

  “Do you know what you’re speaking of?” Robespierre whispered, drawing David aside, though Wordsworth followed them, now paying close attention. “What could your ward have known of such matters?”

  “Both my wards were former novices at the Abbey of Montglane—” David began, but was again interrupted.

  “Why have you never mentioned this before?” said Robespierre, his voice trembling. “But of course—this explains the devotion the Bishop of Autun lavished upon them from the moment of their arrival! If only you’d told me this earlier—before I let him slip through my fingers!”

  “I never believed the story, Maximilien,” David said. “I thought it was only a legend, a superstition. Marat believed it, though. And Mireille, attempting to save her cousin’s life, told him the fabled treasure actually existed! She told him that she and her cousin had a portion of the treasure, and had buried it in my garden. But when he arrived the next day with a deputation to dig for it …”

  “Yes? Yes?” Robespierre said fiercely, his fingers nearly crushing David’s arm. Wordsworth was hanging on every word.

  “Mireille had disappeared,” whispered David, “and near the small fountain in the garden, there was a place where the earth had been freshly churned.”

  “Where is this ward of yours now?” Robespierre nearly cried in his agitation. “She must be brought in for questioning. At once.”

  “That is how I wished you might help me,” said David. “I have now lost hope that she will return at all. With your contacts, I’d thought you might learn her whereabouts and whether anything has—befallen her.”

  “We shall find her if we have to turn France upside down,” Robespierre assured him. “You must give me a full description, with as much detail as possible.”

  “I can do better than that,” David replied. “I’ve a painting of her in my studio.”

  CORSICA

  JANUARY 1793

  But the subject of the painting, as fate would have it, was not destined to remain long on French soil.

  It was well after midnight, near the end of January, when Mireille was roused from a deep sleep by Letizia Buonaparte, in the small room she shared with Elisa in their house in the hills above Ajaccio. Mireille had been in Corsica for three months now—and had learned at Letizia’s side much, but not all, of what she’d stayed to learn.

  “You must dress quickly,” said Letizia in a low voice to the two girls, who were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes. Beside Letizia in the darkened room were her two small children, Maria-Carolina and Girolamo, already dressed, like Letizia, for travel.

  “What is it?” Elisa cried.

  “We must flee,” said Letizia in a calm and steady voice. “The soldiers of Paoli have been here. The king of France is dead.”

  “No!” Mireille cried, sitting up abruptly.

  “He was executed ten days ago at Paris,” said Letizia, pulling clothes from the wardrobe in their room so they could dress quickly. “And Paoli has raised troops, here on Corsica, to join forces with Sardinia and Spain—to overthrow the French government.”

  “But my mother,” complained Elisa, unwilling to leave her warm bed, “what has this all to do with us?”

  “Your brothers Napoleone and Lucciano have spoken out against Paoli this afternoon in the Corsican Assembly,” said Letizia with a wry smile. “Paoli has placed the vendetta traversa upon them.”

  “What is that?” Mireille said, climbing from bed and pulling clothes over her head as Letizia handed them to her.

  “The collateral revenge!” Elisa whispered. “It is customary in Corsica, when someone has injured you, to bring the revenge against his entire family! But where are my brothers now?”

  “Lucciano is in hiding with my brother, Cardinal Fesch,” Letizia replied, handing Elisa her clothes. “Napoleone has fled the island. Now come, we’ve not enough horses to make it to Bocognano tonight, even with the children riding double. We must steal some and reach there before dawn.” She left the room, pushing the smaller children ahead of her. As they whimpered in fear in the
darkness, Mireille heard Letizia say in a firm voice, “I am not crying, am I? So what have you invented to cry about?”

  “What’s at Bocognano?” Mireille whispered to Elisa as they hastened from the room.

  “My grandmother, Angela-Maria di Pietra-Santa, lives there,” replied Elisa. “This means that matters are very grave indeed.”

  Mireille was flabbergasted. At last! She would finally see the old woman she’d heard so much about—friend of the Abbess of Montglane—

  Elisa threw her arm about Mireille’s waist as they hurried into the dark night.

  “Angela-Maria has lived in Corsica all her life. From her own brothers, cousins, and grandnephews, she could raise an army that would wipe out half this isle. That is why Mother turns to her—it means she accepts the collateral revenge!”

  The village of Bocognano was a walled fortress tucked high in the rugged and craggy mountains, nearly eight thousand feet above the sea. It was close to dawn when they crossed the last bridge on horseback, single file, the raging torrent boiling with mist below them. As they climbed the final hill, Mireille saw the pearly Mediterranean stretched out to the east, the little islands of Pianosa, Formica, Elba, and Monte Cristo that seemed to be floating in the sky, and beyond them the shimmering coastline of Tuscany just rising from the mist.

  Angela-Maria di Pietra-Santa was not happy to see them.

  “So!” said the little gnomelike woman, her hands on her hips as she stepped out of her small stone house to meet the weary riders. “Again they are in trouble, these sons of Carlo Buonaparte! I should have guessed that one day they would bring us to this.”

  If Letizia was surprised to hear that her mother knew the reason for their arrival, she did not show it. Her face still calm and tranquil, showing no emotion, she leapt from her horse and went to embrace her knotty and irate parent on either cheek.

  “Well, well,” snapped the older woman, “enough of the formalities. Get these children off their horses, for they look half-dead already! Don’t you feed them? They all look like plucked chickens!” And she bustled about, pulling the younger ones from the horses by their feet. When she reached Mireille, she stopped and watched her dismount. Then she went over and grasped Mireille’s chin roughly, turning her face this way and that to have a good look.

  “So this is the one you’ve told me about,” she tossed over her shoulder to Letizia. “The one with child? The one from Montglane?”

  Mireille was nearly five months pregnant now, and her health had recovered, as Letizia had said it would.

  “She must be removed from the island, Mother,” replied Letizia. “We can no longer protect her, though I know the abbess would wish us to do so.”

  “How much has she learned?” demanded the old woman.

  “As much as I could teach her in so short a time,” Letizia said, her pale blue eyes resting briefly on Mireille. “But not enough.”

  “Well, let’s not stand here clacking about for all the world to hear!” cried the old woman. She turned to Mireille and threw her withered arms about her in an embrace. “You come with me, young lady. Perhaps Helene de Roque will curse me for what I’m about to do—but if so, she should answer her correspondence more promptly! I’ve not heard a reply in the whole three months you’ve been here.

  “Tonight,” she went on in a mysterious whisper, leading Mireille toward the house, “under cover of darkness, I’ve arranged for a ship to take you to a friend of mine, where you’ll be safe until the traversa is over.”

  “But madame,” said Mireille, “your daughter has not finished my education. If I must go away and hide until this battle is over, it will delay my mission even further. I cannot afford to wait much longer.”

  “Who’s asking you to wait?” She patted Mireille’s small stomach and smiled. “Besides, I need you to go where I’m sending you—and I don’t think you’ll mind. The friend who protects you has been told you’re coming, though he didn’t expect you quite so soon. His name is Shahin—quite a dashing name. In Arabic, it means ‘Peregrine Falcon.’ He will continue your education in Algiers.”

  POSITIONAL ANALYSIS

  Chess is the art of analysis.

  —Mikhail Botvinnik

  Soviet GM/World Champion

  Chess is imagination.

  —David Bronstein

  Soviet GM

  Wenn ihr’s nicht fühlt, ihr werdet’s nicht erjagen. (If you don’t feel it, you’ll never get it.)

  —Faust

  Johann Wolfgang Göethe

  The coast road swung in long curves above the sea, each turn revealing a breathtaking view of rocky surf below. Small flowering succulents and lichen tumbled over the sheer rock faces, washed by sea spray. Ice plants were blooming in brilliant fuchsias and golds, the spiky leaves forming lacy patterns as they clambered down the salt-crusted rock. The sea shimmered metallic green—the color of Solarin’s eyes.

  I was distracted from this view, however, by the tangle of thoughts that had jammed my brain since the night before. I was trying to sort them out as my cab swept along the open corniche toward Algiers.

  Every time I put two and two together—I kept coming up with eight. There were eights everywhere. First the fortune-teller had pointed it out with regard to my birthday. Then Mordecai, Sharrif, and Solarin had invoked it like a magical sign: not only was there an eight etched in the palm of my hand, but Solarin said there was a formula of the Eight—whatever that was supposed to mean. Those had been his last words before disappearing into the night, leaving Sharrif as my escort home—and no key to get back into my hotel room, since Solarin had pocketed it.

  Sharrif had naturally been curious to know who my handsome companion had been at the cabaret and why he’d disappeared so suddenly. I explained how flattering it was to a simple girl like me to have not one, but two dates, only a few hours after landing on the shores of a new continent—and left him to his own thoughts as he and his thugs chauffeured me home in the squad car.

  My key was at the desk when I arrived, and Solarin’s bike was no longer propped outside my window. Since my night of peaceful sleep had been shot to hell anyway, I decided to waste the rest of it doing a little research.

  Now I knew there was a formula, and it wasn’t just a Knight’s Tour. As Lily had imagined, it was another sort of formula—a formula that not even Solarin had deciphered. And it had something to do, I was certain, with the Montglane Service.

  Nim had tried to warn me, hadn’t he? He’d sent enough books about mathematical formulas and games. I decided to start with the one Sharrif had seemed most interested in, the one Nim himself had written—the Fibonacci numbers. I’d stayed up reading it until nearly dawn, and my determination had paid off, though I wasn’t certain exactly how. The Fibonacci numbers, it seems, were used for a little more than stock market projections. Here’s how they work:

  Leonardo Fibonacci had decided to take numbers starting with “one”: by adding each number to the one preceding, he produced a string of numbers that had very interesting properties. So one plus zero makes one; one and one = two; two and one = three; three and two = five; five and three = eight … and so on.

  Fibonacci was something of a mystic, having studied among the Arabs who believed all numbers had magical properties. He discovered that the formula describing the relationship between each of his numbers—which was one-half the square root of five minus one (½ (√5 – 1))—also described the structure of everything in nature that formed a spiral.

  According to Nim’s book, botanists soon learned that every plant whose petals or stems were spiral conformed to the Fibonacci numbers. Biologists knew that the nautilus shell and all spiral forms of marine life followed the pattern. Astronomers claimed the relationships of planets in the solar system—even the shape of the Milky Way—were described by the Fibonacci numbers. But I’d noticed something else, even before Nim’s book spelled it out. Not because I knew anything about mathematics, but because I’d been a music major. You see, this lit
tle formula had not been invented by Leonardo Fibonacci but discovered two thousand years earlier—by a guy named Pythagoras. The Greeks called it the aurio sectio: the golden mean.

  Simply put, the golden mean describes any point on a line where the ratio of the smaller part to the larger part is the same as the ratio of the larger part to the whole line. This ratio was used by all ancient civilizations in architecture, painting, and music. It was considered by Plato and Aristotle to be the “perfect” relationship to determine whether something was aesthetically beautiful. But to Pythagoras, it meant a great deal more than that.

  Pythagoras was a fellow whose devotion to mysticism made even Fibonacci look like a patzer. The Greeks called him “Pythagoras of Samos” because he’d come to Crotona from the island of Samos, fleeing political problems. But according to his own contemporaries, he was born in Tyre, a city of ancient Phoenicia—that country we now call Lebanon—and traveled widely, living in Egypt for twenty-one years and Mesopotamia for twelve, arriving at last in Crotona well past the age of fifty. There he founded a mystical society, thinly disguised as a school, where his students learned the secrets he’d gleaned from his wanderings. These secrets centered around two things: mathematics and music.

  It was Pythagoras who discovered that the base of the Western music scale was the octave because a plucked string divided in half would give the same sound exactly eight tones higher than one twice as long. The frequency of vibration of a string is inversely proportional to its length. One of his secrets was that a musical fifth (five diatonic notes, or the golden mean of an octave), when repeated twelve times in ascending sequence, should return to the original note eight octaves higher. But instead, when it got there it was off by an eighth of a note—so the ascending scale, too, formed a spiral.