from time to time, on the whole he was causing no problems. Carlos laid the sheet of paper down and nodded slowly at his son.
'Most respectable. Well done.'
Naboleone's eyes sparkled with pleasure.
'Father!' Giuseppe piped up. 'Read my report!'
'Where is it?'
'Here.' Letizia lifted it up from the chopping board and handed it to her husband. 'No surprises there.'
It took far less time to read about the older boy's academic progress. Giuseppe was a kind, considerate and polite boy who was making good progress in every subject and seemed to show a particular interest in ecclesiastical matters. Carlos laid the report down on top of Naboleone's.
'Well done, boys. I'm proud of you both. Giuseppe, have you considered a career in the Church? It would seem to suit you.'
'I had thought of it, Father.'
Letizia nodded. 'A good career. You have the temperament for it.'
'Do I?'
'Oh, yes.'
As Giuseppe smiled at her, Carlos turned to his younger son. 'And you, Naboleone, what do you want to be when you grow up?'
'A soldier,' he said without an instant's hesitation.
Carlos smiled. 'That's an admirable aim, my son. I think you might make an excellent soldier, although you must realise that you will have to obey orders.'
'But, Father, I want to give orders, not obey them.'
'Well then, you must be prepared to do both if you are to be a good soldier.'
'Oh…'
Letizia began to serve up the evening meal: a rich stew of goat and stewed hazelnuts – a favourite recipe of the family. When every bowl was filled she took her place and the children fell silent, closed their eyes and pressed their hands together as Carlos said grace. As the children started eating she looked down the table at her husband.
'Has there been any word on the boys' scholarships?'
'No. I've heard nothing from the academy at Montpellier. It looks as if they'll be going to Autun after all.'
Letizia frowned. 'Autun?'
'Autun will do to start with,' Carlos said.'They have good links with some of the military schools. If Naboleone wants to join the army it would be a good start for him until I can find a better opening. I sent an application to Brienne this morning.'
'That's all very well,' Letizia said quietly, 'but even if the boys do get the scholarships, how can we afford to pay the balance of the fees?'
'We might not have to,' Carlos continued. 'The governor has promised to pay our share of the fees.'
Letizia froze for a moment, then shook her head. 'To think we have sunk so low as to accept common charity.'
'It's not charity, my dear,' Carlos said, forcing himself to keep his tone even. 'He places great value on our service to France.'
'Oh, I'm sure he does.'
'Besides, he can easily afford it and we can't. It would not be very gracious to refuse his offer.'
'Huh!'
Letizia continued eating for a while before she addressed her husband again. 'Do you really think it's for the best?'
'Yes. Their future is in France. That's their best hope for advancement. So, that's where they must be educated.'
'But they'll leave home. When will we see them again?'
'I don't know,' Carlos replied. 'When we can afford it, we can have the boys home for holidays, or travel to see them.'
'And how will they cope without me?'
'Ask them,' he said firmly. 'See what they think. Naboleone!'
'Father?'
'Do you want to go to school in France?'
The boy glanced quickly at his mother. 'If I must…'
Carlos looked at him, and smiled. 'Bravo! See, Letizia, he understands.'
'But I don't.' She shook her head sadly. 'I don't understand what I have done that my children should want to leave me before they have even grown up. Leave home and forget me.'
'Mother,' Naboleone spoke earnestly, 'I shall never forget you. I will come back as often as I can. I swear it. Giuseppe too.' He turned to his older brother. 'Swear it!'
'I promise, Mother.'
She shrugged her thin shoulders. 'We'll see.'
Chapter 9
The letter arrived in November. Giuseppe and Naboleone had been awarded places at the school in Autun in the new year, with generous scholarships from the French Government. The days passed in a state of nervous anticipation for Naboleone. He was eight years old, and despite his independent spirit and taste for adventure, he became more and more anxious about leaving his home.There would be no familiar shell to return to at the end of the day with the comfort of his family around him. Despite having a good command of French, his accent, he knew, would mark him as an outsider.
They set off early one morning in the middle of December. The entire family rose to bid the two boys farewell. Even Uncle Luciano, bedridden with gout, painfully made his way outside into the street and pressed a few coins into their hands for spending money. A cart and driver had been hired to drive Letizia and her two sons to the port of Bastia, where she would see them safely aboard a ship for Marseilles. With shouted farewells and much waving, the family watched the cart rumble up the street, turn the corner and disappear from view.
Carlos stayed a moment longer, feeling sick at the knowledge that he would not see his sons again for many months, and now at last doubting the decision to send them to France. It had always seemed the sensible thing to do through all the years that he had petitioned for his title of nobility and then for the scholarships, thinking only of their future. Now the time had come – the fruition of his plans – and it felt as if his heart were being torn from his body.
The cart left Ajaccio and began to climb up through the surrounding countryside as the sun rose. Giuseppe and Naboleone leaned on the back of the rear seat and stared back at Ajaccio, a jumble of houses nestling next to the azure sea, until at last the cart crested a ridge and their home was lost from view. The driver joined the military road that the French had carved across the heart of the island in the early days of their occupation of Corsica. The route wound through the hills, passing through small villages, some still in ruins after being burned down by French soldiers in reprisal raids. Small, fortified outposts remained at key points along the road, evidence that some Paolists at least were keeping the cause of Coriscan independence alive.
When the road crossed the bridge at Ponte Nuovo, faded memories returned to Letizia of the brave Corsicans charging the ordered white lines of the French soldiers – just there, overlooking the meadow that ran down to the tumbling stream and trestle bridge. Now goats grazed on winter pasture as their shepherd warmed his hands over a small fire. This was where she had stood, with the other women and their children as the first terrible volley tore the ranks of their husbands, their sons, their lovers to bloody shreds.Volley after volley had echoed off the sides of the surrounding hills, drowning out the cries and screams of the wounded. Then finally the shooting ended, and out of the shrouds of gunpowder smoke came wails of fear and panic. Dim shapes of men flitted into view, running back up the slope, fleeing for their lives. Their cries were taken up by the women and children around Letizia, and with a
