CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Ambition is to the mind what the cap is to the falcon; It blinds us first, and then compels us to tower by reason of our blindness.
—Charles Caleb Colton, Lacon
Gradara Castle
Near Venice, Italy
1812
All knew the march to the Russian border would be long and hard, but there was excitement in the ranks, thoughts of pillage in this strange land, of killing heathens and those fierce warriors called Cossacks.
General Barclay de Tolly and General Bagration had planned to stop this fine day for provisioning in northern Italy. Napoléon was given hospitality at a grand castle with views of the Adriatic. It was called Gradara, old and wealthy and filled with treasures Napoléon would not take, for the master was an ally.
It was at Gradara Napoléon read the courier’s message from the front. He walked to the ramparts, gazed beyond, to the Adriatic Sea, a beautiful sight, opened the message, and smiled. Czar Alexander was mobilizing two of his armies to meet them. He said aloud, his words blown away by the wind, “Let him bring every cursed soldier in his lands, it matters not. I will prevail. I will burn Moscow to the ground and dance in its ashes and blood.”
He was still smiling when he walked back into the great hall of Gradara. He drank and dined on fresh pheasant and newly butchered boar, listened to his generals boast of the destruction they would visit upon the Russian upstarts.
At last, Napoléon struck his knife against the wooden table and shouted, “I wish no more talk of war this night. Entertain me.”
The generals glanced at one another, brows raised, not knowing what to do. Suddenly, an old man appeared and walked forward to stand before the emperor. “I am Gradara’s bard.”
Napoléon looked him up and down. “Look at you, your hair’s as white as snow, your beard nearly touches your bony knees, and your eyes are filmed to near blindness. You are so old, how can you remember a single song? A single tale?”
The old man said in a strong, firm voice, “Ah, but I do, sire, I have a grand tale for you.”
Napoléon nodded to one of his generals, who threw the old man several coins. “I do not wish to hear the usual swill of a fair damsel and a valiant warrior, bard. I want something dark, something to make my belly tight. I will give you another coin if you please me.”
The old man nodded and began, his voice strong and loud, reaching every corner of the great hall. “Sire, what I will tell you is true. It is about two brothers who lived not the normal life span allotted to most men, but for hundreds of years, perhaps more. They lived here, in this very castle, for a time.
“The brothers were born on the same night, arms linked together, in a shared caul. From birth, one was strong, and one was weak. The strong one loved his brother very much and would do anything for him, carrying him to the woods, saving the finest bits of meat from their suppers for him.
“One day, the strong brother went into the woods to hunt, hoping to kill something to please his brother when a great storm blew up. He was separated from his friends, forced to light a fire under a great oak tree and cook a squirrel from his game bag.
“A great falcon came down from the skies and ripped the dead squirrel from his hand. The brother called after the bird, ‘Please don’t go. I’m lost and hungry. I’ll share the squirrel with you.’
“And the great bird wheeled around and returned, dropping the squirrel at his feet. True to his word, he cut the squirrel in half, giving the bird the slightly larger piece. It was then the brother realized he could hear the bird’s thoughts.
“ ‘Thank you for your kindness. I will share one with you, as well. I know of a cure for your brother. Spill my blood in a cup and give it to him to drink at the full of the moon.’
“The brother drew back, horrified. ‘I cannot kill you. You shared your meal with me.’
“The falcon thought to him, ‘You must trust me. Bring me back to your home, and when the time is nigh, spill my blood. Your brother will drink and be cured.’
“The falcon showed the brother the way home. And remained, a friend to both brothers, and they could hear the falcon’s thoughts, the falcon theirs.
“Moon cycle after moon cycle passed without the brother honoring his promise. Finally, on the third full moon, the bird thought to him, ‘You must kill me this night, or the cure will no longer work.’
“The weak brother, who by this time was barely able to move, heard the falcon. ‘Please, no, Brother. I do not want to lose our friend.’
“But the stronger had promised, and he knew his brother would die if he didn’t. So, when the moon was full, the falcon presented his neck, and the brother sliced it open, catching the ruby blood in a pewter cup. He gave the drink to his brother. He drank it down. The two brothers mourned the bird, buried it, and slept. In the morning, the weak brother was strong.
“He bowed to his brother. ‘I have long wanted a human body to live in. Thank you.’ And the stronger brother saw that his brother’s eyes now glowed red. And he realized his brother had spoken in the falcon’s strange tongue.
“ ‘What do you mean? What evil is this, to possess the body of a bird, and now of my brother?’
“ ‘A priest banished me into the body of a falcon many years ago. I did not sleep, and blood was my only succor. Ah, it feels good to walk again.’ He left the castle but returned a few hours later. He showed the brother a sheaf of strange pages. ‘Now, I need your help.’
“The stronger brother had no choice but to comply, for he still loved his brother, though he knew this was unnatural and wrong.
“ ‘You must bring me a virgin before nightfall. I must drink her blood. Only then will I have the strength to live through the night.’
“He brought his brother a virgin from the village, and the next night another, until the village was emptied. He grew strong, and soon, the two were feared throughout the land. They fled to a dark castle, deep in a forest. It is said they experimented with many things, with blood and herbs and silver, to find a way to make themselves live forever. Did they succeed? I do not know.”
Napoléon rose to his feet. “Bah. Blood drinking and talking crows. Ridiculous. Off with you.”
The old bard cackled a laugh, then leaned in and whispered to Napoléon, “It was a falcon, sire, not a crow. One truth I do know: the brothers brought the magic pages they used to divine this spell back here to Gradara. This is where a sainted ancestor found them, many years ago. They are mine now, though I do not understand them. But as I said, the brothers understood them very well.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me these pages.”
The old man pulled the pages from inside his shirt. Napoléon grabbed them, but he couldn’t read the pages—all he saw were strange symbols and writing, and puzzling drawings that baffled him, the red and green ink still vibrant. What did it mean? And then he knew. The pages were magic. They would give him the power to defeat the Russian czar. It mattered not he couldn’t read them.
Napoléon said to the old bard, “These pages were ripped from a book. Where is the book?”
“I know not, sire.”
“Then I will keep these pages. This legend you told me—I know now it is a portent of the blood I will spill in accursed Russia. Mayhap I will show them to the czar as he bows before me.”
The mighty army marched away in the morning and into disaster. Nearly half a million soldiers were lost to a bitter winter, to starvation, to people who would rather die than accept Napoléon’s boot on their neck.
Months later, Napoléon looked at the pages and realized the portent he’d believed to be his mighty victory and the blood of the Russians was his own soldiers’ blood and bitter defeat. But he could not destroy the pages, for fear of their curse staying with him.
And so it was that somewhere near Smolensk, a tinker found a saddlebag lying in a pile of bushes. There were only loose pages within. He had no idea what they were but kept them. Perhaps they had value, perhaps someone would pay him for them.