The War Room map looked like it had chickenpox.
Red pins covered the western coast of France. The Vendée. Brittany. Anjou. The heartland of the peasantry.
"They killed the mayor of Cholet," Jean reported, reading from a bloodstained dispatch. "They stuffed his mouth with his own sash and hanged him from the church steeple."
"Who is leading them?" I asked. "Aristocrats?"
"No," Jean said. "A wagon driver."
He placed a sketch on the table. It showed a rough-faced man with intense eyes.
"Jacques Cathelineau," Jean said. "They call him the 'Saint of Anjou.' He claims he speaks to the Virgin Mary. He's rallying the peasants to a 'Catholic and Royal Army.'"
"Royal?" I scoffed. "I am the King. And I am right here."
"They say you are a prisoner," Jean said. "They say the Jacobins have stolen your soul. They are fighting to liberate you."
"They are fighting because we took their bells," Danton growled. "We poked the hornet's nest."
"We needed the bronze," I said. "And we still need it."
"The rebellion is spreading," Napoleon said, studying the map. "They know the terrain. The bocage—high hedges, sunken roads. It's perfect for ambushes. My cannons can't see targets there."
"So burn it," Danton said.
We all looked at him.
"Burn the hedges," Danton clarified. "Burn the barns. Burn the villages. If they want to hide in the dark, we give them light."
"Scorched earth?" I asked. "These are French citizens, Georges."
"They are traitors," Danton said. "A cancer. You cut out a cancer, Louis. You don't negotiate with it."
I looked at the map.
If I let the Vendée revolt succeed, it would open a second front. The British could land troops there. The Royalist émigrés could return. It would be a dagger in my back while I fought Austria.
But burning my own country?
"We need to try one more thing before we strike the match," I said.
I stood up.
"I need to talk to the Queen."
The Tower of the Temple had become a luxury prison.
I had moved Marie there from the Tuileries. It was safer. And more isolated.
I walked down the stone corridor. The guards—Danton's men—saluted me.
I unlocked the heavy door.
Marie was sitting by the window, reading a book of prayers. She wore a simple black dress. Her hair was graying at the temples. She looked thinner, harder.
She didn't stand when I entered.
"Husband," she said. The word sounded like an insult.
"Marie," I said.
"Have you come to take the Dauphin's toys?" she asked. "Or perhaps his shoes? I hear you are taxing dirt now."
"I am taxing survival," I said.
I walked over to the table. I placed the dispatch from the Vendée on it.
"Read this."
She glanced at it. Her eyes lit up for a second. Hope.
"The people are rising," she whispered. "For God. And for the King."
"They are rising for a ghost," I said. "They think I am a prisoner. They think they are saving me."
"Are they wrong?" she asked, looking around the stone cell.
"They are going to die," I said. "Thousands of them. Peasants with scythes against trained soldiers with muskets."
I leaned forward.
"I don't want to massacre them, Marie. But I will if I have to."
"Then do it," she said coldley. "Add more blood to your ledger."
"I want you to write to them," I said. "A letter. Tell them to stand down. Tell them the King is safe. Tell them that their duty is to defend France against Austria, not to kill their brothers."
"You want me to tell them to obey the Anti-Christ?" she laughed. "You melted the bells, Louis. You spat on the Church. And now you want the Church to save you?"
"I want you to save them," I said. "If this rebellion continues, I will have to unleash Danton. Do you know what he suggests? Fire. Famine. Total war."
"I know Danton," she said. "He is an animal."
"He is my Minister," I said. "And he is winning the argument."
I gripped the back of her chair.
"Write the letter, Marie. Be the Queen. Protect your people."
She stood up. She looked me in the eye.
"I am the Queen," she said. "And a Queen does not collaborate with her jailer."
She picked up the dispatch and tore it in half.
"Let them fight," she hissed. "Let them burn your Republic to the ground. I hope Cathelineau marches on Paris. I hope he hangs Danton from a lamppost. And I hope he finds you hiding under your desk."
She spat at my feet.
I looked at the saliva on my boot.
I looked at her.
The partnership was dead. Buried. Rotted.
"Fine," I said. "You made your choice."
I turned to the door.
"When the reports come in," I said softly. "When you hear about the burning villages and the starving children... remember that you could have stopped it."
"Get out," she screamed.
I left the cell. The door clanged shut.
I walked down the corridor. My heart was cold.
I had tried. I had tried to be human.
Now, I had to be the State.
I returned to the War Room.
Danton and Napoleon were waiting.
"Well?" Danton asked. "Did she sign?"
"No," I said.
I walked to the map. I pulled the red pins out of the Vendée.
"General Kléber is in Nantes, correct?" I asked Napoleon.
"Yes. With the Mainz Army. Veterans."
"Send him an order," I said.
I picked up a quill. I didn't tremble.
"Create... mobile columns," I said. "Fast-moving units. No baggage train. Live off the land."
"Infernal Columns," Danton suggested. The name had a ring to it.
"Infernal Columns," I agreed. "Their orders are simple."
I looked at the map.
"Pacify the region. If a village flies the white flag, spare it. If a village flies the Royalist flag... burn it. Seize the grain. Seize the livestock. Leave them nothing but their eyes to weep with."
"And the prisoners?" Napoleon asked.
"No prisoners," I said. "We don't have the food."
Napoleon nodded. He wrote the order down. His hand didn't shake.
"This is genocide," Talleyrand whispered from the corner.
"It's civil war," I said. "There is no difference."
I looked at the map of Paris.
"And the gunpowder?" I asked. "Are the citizens scraping their walls?"
"They are," Danton said. "The 'Tax of Dirt' is working. We have tons of saltpeter arriving at the Arsenal. The children are collecting it."
"Good."
The door opened.
A soldier entered. He was carrying something heavy wrapped in a canvas cloth.
"Captain Bonaparte," the soldier said. "From the foundry."
Napoleon took the bundle. He placed it on the table.
He unwrapped it.
It was a cannon barrel. Small. Bronze. Rough-cast. You could still see the imperfections in the metal.
It wasn't smooth like the old Royal guns. It was ugly. Industrial.
"The first one," Napoleon said. "Cast from the bell of Saint-Sulpice."
He patted the metal.
"It's still warm."
I touched the barrel. It vibrated slightly, as if the sound of the bell was still trapped inside.
"The metal is consecrated, Sire," Napoleon said with a dark smile. "It should send them to Hell faster."
"Mount it," I said. "Send it to the Vendée."
I looked at my reflection in the bronze. Distorted. Hard.
I was the King who melted bells. I was the King who burned villages. I was the King who held his wife in a dungeon.
"Jean," I said.
"Sire?"
"Prepare a speech for the Assembly," I said. "Tell them... tell them that the Republic of Virtue is over."
I looked at the cannon.
"Tell them the Republic of Iron has begun."