by Glenn Cooper
“I believe the time to strike is upon us.”
“Really? With the Italians here? Would it not be better to wait until they have departed?”
“Their presence could work to our advantage.”
“How so? Is it not a complication? They have a successful alliance with Robespierre. I would be a new actor upon the stage.”
Forneau nodded earnestly. “You forget that Garibaldi is also, as you so aptly put it, a new actor upon the stage. He is open to new circumstances. And I know from speaking with his intimates that he thinks poorly of our king. In fact, I am told in private he calls him a foolish peacock of a man.”
“He is a foolish peacock, is he not?” Orleans laughed.
“There is more,” Forneau said.
“Yes?”
“Garibaldi has also told his people that he has immense respect for you as a military commander and thinks you would make a far more substantial and reliable ally for his country.”
Orleans was now too excited to contain himself. He got up from his chair and strutted around the room, his robe flapping open.
“When?” he asked. “When should we do the deed?”
“The king will announce a grand banquet to be held tomorrow night for his nobles and the Italians. At that banquet he will congratulate King Giuseppe on his recovery and wish him well on his return to Italia.”
“In other words, bugger off, Giuseppe. Back to Rome and thank you very much.”
“That is the idea. I believe you would be making a bold statement to our nobles and our Italian allies to strike a blow at this very banquet. Think of it, by tomorrow night, you would be sleeping in the king’s bed, no, your new bed.”
“And what would you require of me for your fealty?” Orleans asked.
“Nothing more than my service as loyal councilor to your person.”
“Nothing else? Not even a heavy purse of gold and a bevy of fetching slaves?”
Forneau let his mouth crack into a smile. “Well, perhaps a small purse and one or two pleasant wenches.”
The royal banquet was a tense affair with a palpable sense of portent in the air. The Italians knew what was coming, Forneau knew, and so did Orleans. Perhaps Orleans had even told a few confidants. The one man who was assuredly oblivious was Robespierre who was in a positively giddy mood, basking in the defeat of indomitable enemies and buoyed by the imminent departure of the Italians. He ate and drank with abandon and laughed riotously at his own jokes and those of sycophantic nobles at his table.
Seated to his right was Garibaldi and to his left Orleans. Garibaldi had no appetite. He always ate sparingly before a battle and tonight was no exception. There would be a battle—whether it would be a terrible and bloody one was an open question. The French nobility, these men surrounding them throughout the great hall, all of them arrogant, preening, drinking, whoring—they would have to be placated or destroyed. If they were to be placated, his words would be the instrument. He drank his wine in tiny sips to keep his head clear.
Servants flooded the hall with groaning platters of some sort of charred meats. Robespierre suddenly rose, choosing this moment to address the gathering. He looked prissy with his tight, powder blue garments and oiled, highly coiffed white hair. His voice was high-pitched, more like a woman’s.
As the king was about to begin his remarks, Garibaldi saw Orleans trying to make eye contact, as if seeking a dose of courage for what he was about to do. The old Italian avoided his eyes and instead sought out Antonio and Simon at a nearby table. He nodded at them. They rudely and loudly declared that they had to take a piss, and off they went, leaving the hall together.
If Robespierre was offended by the slight, he failed to let it register on his jovial, sweating face. “My friends, my allies, over the past fortnight we have not failed to celebrate our great victory over not one, not two, but three formidable enemies, the English dogs, the German wolves, and the Russian bears. But on this night, the celebration reaches a crescendo and my kitchens have prepared a special festive course, platters of roasted dogs, wolves, and bears!”
The French nobles erupted in applause while the Italians had a more muted response.
“You must tell me which you enjoy the most,” the king continued. “Of course, a great victory oft requires a great ally and we now have such an ally in the Kingdom of Italia, our friends to the south. We are joyful that their courageous new monarch, King Giuseppe, has fully recovered from his battle wound but saddened that he must now return to his own lands. We will miss him greatly. To remember his time in Francia, we will be loading his wagons with barrels of our finest wines and perhaps we may expect in return barrels of the king’s finest olive oil.”
“Of course,” Garibaldi replied loudly. “You may count on it.”
As applause rang out Garibaldi saw Orleans slide his chair back.
Robespierre had a sip of wine and continued, “As much as you love your king, I am sure you will want me to keep my speech short so you may …”
Orleans stood and caught the king’s startled gaze.
“Yes, you will keep it short!” Orleans shouted, plunging a dagger into the king’s throat with a sharp, upward move.
All in the hall rose and gasped as the king’s plate filled with blood.
Robespierre’s eyes were wild. He tried to speak but was unable. Instinctively he clasped his hands to his throat to stop the bleeding but it was a futile gesture. But as his legs were about to give out his countenance changed and he sought out Orleans’ face. His rage seemed to soften and become a sadness of sorts and his lips formed two syllables: pour quoi?
“Why?” Orleans bellowed to the bleeding king who had slumped back to his chair. “Why? Because you are weak and I am strong. Because I have waited for this moment for years, decades, centuries. Because I am the better man to be king and my reign will be …”
“A very short one,” Simon shouted as he and Antonio appeared from behind the royal table.
Antonio had a sword he had stashed in a serving room and he swung it hard and high, grunting with effort as the blade sliced through skin, muscle, ligaments, and finally the duke’s vertebrae and spinal cord. With a geyser of blood Orleans’s head fell from his shoulders and thudded onto the floor.
Robespierre’s eyes followed the head as it rolled away and then he pitched forward onto his dinner plate.
The French nobility called out in rage and began ranting at the Italians. Many drew their weapons and the Italian contingent reached for theirs too but was ordered to stand down by Garibaldi. Even Antonio threw down his bloody sword and stood beside Simon, arms folded, chin out. It was then that Forneau, who had been quietly seated halfway down the royal table, rose up and lifted his arms.
“My fellow countrymen! Please be calm! Please be serene! You must listen to me. You all know me and I know you. Sit and let me speak to you. I beg of you.”
The astonished crowd numbly obeyed but none put away their blades and pistols.
“I am sure that King Maximilien and the Duke of Orleans can still hear me and that is good. We have all long suffered under the cruel and capricious yoke of Robespierre and Orleans would have been no better, perhaps worse. It is high time we had a ruler who was a better man, a man who could help us rise higher, a man who could bring a modicum of goodness to this evil existence to which we have been condemned.”
The Duke of Burgundy, seated near to Forneau called out, “And you? You, Forneau? A bureaucrat? You believe you are that man?”
Forneau quickly extinguished the catcalls by raising his arms again and saying, “To this I say, no! No, I am not this man.”
Someone cried, “Then who?”
Forneau walked behind Garibaldi and said, “This. This is the man.”
More than one yelled that he was an Italian. Had Forneau forgotten this was Francia?
Garibaldi rose, concealing his aches and pains with a placid expression. “My friends, you are French. I am Italian. The differences we possess in langua
ge, culture, and heritage might have been worthy of discussion, even war during our earthly days but they seem so terribly small in our current situation. We are no longer divided by petty differences over religious practices, over marriages and succession, over family dominance. All these things have been washed away by the consequences of our wickedness. We can continue to act with wickedness and selfishness, as most of us have acted for decades and centuries, or we can explore a different path.”
“What path?” Burgundy demanded.
Garibaldi’s voice gave out, perhaps from exertion, perhaps from emotion. People in the hall had to lean forward and strain to hear his words. “For all my days in Hell,” he said, “I have lamented not the deed that condemned me here, for there is nothing to be done about the past. I have lamented the life we live here and I have always asked, is there a better way? Is there a way to make this place more humane, not only for the likes of us who are privileged to live in palaces and fine houses and to have enough food to eat and wine to drink, but to all the wretches of Hell? Is there a way to make our existence less brutish? Is there a way to bring a ray of hope into our gray skies? Is there a way for men and women to live in less fear?”
A woman, one of the many courtesans in the palace, began to weep openly, and soon others joined her, and their sobs became the orchestra for the rest of his speech.
“And how do you intend to accomplish this lofty goal of yours, my dear Giuseppe?” Burgundy said, his tongue dripping acid. “My apologies. King Giuseppe. I almost forgot you have been king for an entire month.”
Garibaldi paused for a long while, an uncomfortably long while, and the hall grew quieter. Even the sobbing became softer. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know?” Burgundy said with a mocking tone.
“I’d be a fool to say I knew with any certainty how to achieve this,” the Italian replied. “But here are my ideas: to start, we have to eliminate each and every tyrant who calls himself a king, men like Borgia and Robespierre who grew intoxicated with their own power. We need fresh voices.”
“Like yours?” a noble asked.
“Yes, like mine, as imperfect as I am. We need to take down all the kings and tyrants who stand in our way. I am a soldier. I understand that force is often required to change a world, especially this world. But when this is done, and it will not happen in one year, ten years, maybe even a hundred years, then we can end our ceaseless wars and conquests and turn inwards to building a future with less fear, wiping out all rovers from the face of Hell, adding a touch of humanity to rotting rooms, treating women as equal beings, not as property, building workshops and factories, and teaching skills to men and women for the betterment of all people. We will never have children here but that doesn’t mean we don’t have to think about the future and plan for better days to come.”
His throat was dry. He reached for his wine glass and by the time it left his lips something happened. It started as two clapping hands. Then there were four, then a dozen and soon, the entire hall erupted in applause and shouts until even the Duke of Burgundy joined in, reluctantly at first, then enthusiastically.
Forneau seized the moment to shout at the top of his lungs, “I proclaim this man, this extraordinary man, Giuseppe Garibaldi, king of a united and proud Francia-Italia empire!”
Garibaldi felt a tear running down his face. He brushed it away and gestured for Forneau’s ear.
“What do you think old Maximilien is thinking about all this?” he whispered through the din.
Forneau smiled. “We shall never hear his opinion of your fine words but I will find him a most humane rotting room. I will even have it decorated with some of his favorite ornaments.”
The festivities lasted but a single day. Garibaldi had convened a war council with his Italian generals and French nobles to consider a strategy for dealing with the threat of the Russians and Germans regrouping for a counter-attack. Burgundy, a pomposity of a man, had begun maneuvering the previous night and Garibaldi had decided it would be necessary to extend additional rank and consideration to keep his allegiance. So he became Grand Duke Godfrey of Burgundy and received one of Robespierre’s ornate palaces near Paris as compensation. Other nobles would have to be satisfied as well in one way or another but Garibaldi asked Forneau, as his Lord Regent, to sort out all the tiresome details.
Word came to the council room that a rider had arrived from Italia with a need to see King Giuseppe immediately. Garibaldi left the chamber and a few minutes later Antonio, Simon, and Caravaggio were called to join him.
Garibaldi paced while the exhausted messenger, too weak to stand, sat and lifted a vessel of ale to his parched lips.
Antonio saw his master’s bleak look and asked what was happening.
“This good man has ridden day and night for nearly three weeks to deliver an urgent and troubling message. We have a problem, gentlemen, a very large problem.”
“What problem?” Caravaggio asked.
“The Macedonian has invaded Italia.”
“The bastard,” Antonio uttered. “Where is he? How many men?”
“Tell them what you told me,” Garibaldi urged the messenger.
The man lifted his heavy head. His eyes were deeply sunken, his voice little more than a whisper. “Their ships landed near Lecce. There were many, many soldiers, thousands I was told and hundreds of horses. They were marching toward Napoli when I was sent by the Duke of Amalfi to warn you. Surely their intention was Roma but I cannot say whether they have succeeded.”
“Caterina,” Antonio gasped. Since toppling Cesare Borgia, Antonio had not ceased talking about Borgia’s beautiful queen, Caterina Sforza.
“Lovesick fool,” Simon mumbled to himself.
“What did you say?” Antonio challenged.
“I said you’re a lovesick fool.”
“Lovesick? Perhaps. A fool? No. I do not know if she will ever be mine but I know with certainty that she is in danger. Master, let me return to Italia to help mount a defense against these invaders.”
Garibaldi nodded but held up a finger to signify he needed to think. He walked the perimeter of the reception room three times before speaking. “Nothing important is ever easy but our task is difficult indeed. We were fortunate to defeat the Germans and the Russians. Without the help of John Camp, we may not have succeeded. He is gone now. We are still here. But the Germans and the Russians have not gone to sleep. They will surely fight another day and next time, well, we may not be so lucky. We were fortunate to swiftly dispatch Maximilien and make this pact with Francia. But pacts may form and pacts may dissolve. This one will take care and feeding. Now we have another challenge, perhaps the greatest. Italia’s old adversary has pounced while we are far from home. We must fight a war on many fronts. I wish I were a younger man. So much to do, so much …”
Antonio pressed him for an answer to his request.
“Yes, Antonio. You may leave us and return to Roma. Take one thousand men. Mobilize an army as you sweep south across Italia. Defeat the Macedonian.”
“This will surely leave us in a weakened position here,” Caravaggio said.
“Yes,” Garibaldi said. “This is why we must seek another ally.”
“Who?” Simon asked.
“One who is no friend of the Germans and the Russians. One who despises the English and will surely be glad we sent Henry back across the channel with his tail between his legs. We must make a pact with Pedro. We need an alliance with the Iberians.”
Brian’s mantra was never lose sight of land. The only way we’ll get lost and therefore buggered, he said, is if we lose sight of land. Beyond that, there was the small matter of provisions. They had set sail with only enough food and water for several days and they needed to beach the boat periodically to forage on the shore.
For a week, they kept to plan, sailing south through the channel, hugging the coast of Francia. They made their first landfall along the beaches of Normandy one evening and had the great luck to happe
n upon a small settlement of lightly armed and non-bellicose fishermen, an ancient tribe, who sniffed and stared but gave them no trouble when they offered a sword in exchange for a barrel of rainwater and a basket of dried fish. The barter was accomplished with some artful pointing without a shred of common language.
The plan went awry past Jersey when a storm hit at night, blowing their barge out to sea. The flat-bottomed vessel was ill equipped for the deep swells and had it not been for Brian’s excellent seamanship they would not have survived the ordeal.
It was still dark when the seas calmed. Seasick but happy to be alive, they slept for a while in the comfort of a quiet ocean, and then awoke at first light to face their predicament.
Trevor chewed on a piece of fish and looked around. The sky and water were identical shades of grayish blue. “Remember the thing about losing sight of land?” Trevor asked.
“I remember it because I said it, mate,” Brian said. “We are well and truly buggered, but fear not, we’re not permanently buggered. Mind you, it would be grand if we had a compass, which we don’t, or could see the position of the sun, which we can’t.”
“I once saw something about magnetizing a needle and floating it on a leaf,” Trevor said, helpfully, spitting out a fishbone.
“Trouble is,” Brian said, “we’d need a needle or a piece of wire, which we don’t have. Now, if we did, you could rub the heck out of said needle or wire with a piece of silk or wool and said needle or wire would be magnetized. But we still wouldn’t know which way was north and which way was south, absent a handy glimpse of the sun. All we’d have is a north-south line. Not entirely useless but not hugely useful. No, my young friend, we need to use our eyes and our ears to get our arses out of this sling. Look for birds, young Trevor, and listen for the roar of the surf.”
For the next few hours they watched the skies for gulls. Finally, Trevor spotted one.
“Which way’s the damned thing heading?” he asked, spinning around the deck until he was dizzy.
