Roi de Naples

To our esteemed General Lasalle,

It is with the greatest regard for your service, your valor, and your friendship to the Empire that I extend to you this formal invitation. I would be honored by your company at the Royal Palace of Naples for a private dinner, where we may sit together as men of arms and of honor, to exchange words not only of campaigns past but of brighter days to come.

I wish that you will find in my house the warmth of a hearth, the openness of a comrade’s table, and the dignity befitting those who have carried the eagles of France across the world.

You shall be received with every courtesy due to your name and merit. A carriage will be made ready for your arrival, and your comfort in all things shall be my concern.

Your devoted brother in arms, Joachim Murat, By the Grace of God and the Emperor, King of Naples and of the Two Sicilies, Grand Admiral, Grand Constable, Grand Eagle of the Empire, Marshal of France, &c…

Lasalle has always taken his personal appearance very seriously, and so upon receiving this invitation he and his valet set about making himself fit for an appearance at a royal palace. Only his finest dress uniform will do, with only his best cologne and meticulous arrangement of his hair and mustache. For once he feels comfortable wearing one of the finer examples from his collection of swords and sabres, seeing as he will not be risking it being melted by the creatures. The one he chooses is one of his best, a very fine and expensive example with a black Damascus blade and a finely carved handle and guard. It is this sabre that he once accidentally broke while demonstrating its strength before Thiébault and some of his other friends, but happily the Afterlife has put it back together.

He is somewhat surprised to find a carriage waiting for him in the camp, despite the mention of it in the letter, but he gets in nonetheless, leaving the two Colonels in charge in his absence. As it sets off, he rearranges the pelisse draped over his shoulder, the entire outfit covered in as much gold braid and embroidery as could tastefully fit on a hussar's uniform. That is to say, a lot. He also brings his nice hat, a pristine pair of gloves unmarred by campaigning, and his boots are polished to perfection.

The journey is confusing, as are all journeys in this Afterlife. If his camp is in Austria as he suspects it to be, then it should take at least two or three weeks to get there, and one should pass through a logical set of countries, but neither of these concepts apply. The landscape changes erratically - now some Austrian battlefield, now Egypt, now Poland, occasionally France - and the journey certainly takes less than a day, these realms clearly some sort of shortcut.

Lasalle's travels never took him to Naples, and so he has no idea what to expect as the carriage wheels begin to rattle over a cobbled street in what finally seems to be a coherent city, a very large building on the left. Here the carriage halts, and as he steps out he straightens out his uniform and walks inside.

Buildings of this scale have a tendency to freak him out somewhat. He is used to the usual houses in which he is quartered, tents in fields or simply the open air. He has not really been home since he left for his final campaign in life, for he is permanently stuck on campaign here, and so being inside such a structure just feels rather strange. He pushes the feeling down and follows the footman after handing over his hat, the sumptuous rooms and chambers passing by in quick succession with wildly inadequate time to appreciate their craftsmanship.

And when is the last time he even saw Murat with his own eyes? Heilsberg or someplace, surely, unless he has forgotten some other time. For two men who are often considered acquaintances, they certainly have never seen each other particularly often, not helped by the disparity in their ranks and titles.

And then, suddenly, thunder on the staircase: The echo of his name rolled through the vast marble foyer before Lasalle even glimpsed its source.

“LASALLE!”

The shout cracked like a cannon blast across the marble. It was not so much a greeting as it was the voice of God parting the clouds—practically shaking the walls and making chandeliers tremble in their chains. A moment later, down the grand sweep of the staircase, Murat came flying—not descending with dignity, not gliding like some solemn monarch, but rushing as though spurred by a trumpet call, silks and jewels catching in the candlelight. His steps were long, reckless, barely checking themselves against the gilt banisters as he practically bounded down the tiers of marble.

“You answered like a good soldier—and a good friend!” His voice rang, vibrant with delight, echoing in the chamber as though the hussar before him were his long-lost twin. “Come here, mon frère, don’t just stand there like marble—!”

And before Lasalle could so much as compose a sentence in reply, Murat was on him. He collided like a cavalry charge—not the polished touch of a ruler bestowing a gracious and formally conducted welcome, but the full-bodied clasp of a comrade-in-arms. Arms wrapped around Lasalle’s shoulders in a crushing embrace, squeezing with the strength of a man used to throwing himself bodily into battle. Murat laughed, the sound unrestrained and reverberating between the walls.

“There you are!—” He drew back only to clap Lasalle’s arms with both hands, studying him with the eagerness of a man drinking water after a long campaign and admiring him like a jeweler examining a flawless gem. “Still standing, still gleaming—by God, you look just the same! That’s it, you haven’t aged a day, Lasalle! The mustache, the polish, the swagger—ah! This is already the best blessing Naples has ever been graced with. Second to me.”

Murat’s eyes shone as brightly as his embroidered jacket, his voice tumbling faster than Lasalle could possibly interject. He leaned in close with a grin, beckoning, “Come, come—give me this much, eh? La bise, properly! What are we, strangers?” And before hesitation could set in, he kissed each of Lasalle’s cheeks—careful, of course, not to upset the meticulous sculpt of his friend’s hair or mustache. Murat knew the sanctity of appearances, and he acknowledged as much with a satisfied: “There. Proper. Not a hair disturbed, I promise—I wouldn’t dare spoil such perfection! By God, Lasalle, really! You look magnificent! Your mustache alone could lead a regiment into glory!”

Pulling back, he wagged a jeweled finger at him. “And that letter—did you see? Can you believe it? Me! Formal seal, my very best handwriting, not a blot of ink nor a single word crossed out! I nearly died doing it. By Heaven, my poor secretary thought me possessed—pacing, swearing, starting over again and again—but you see?” He threw his arms wide upwards, as though unveiling the whole palace itself. “You’re here! You came! It worked!”

He laughed again, almost giddy, before lowering his voice, though it still boomed enough for the footmen to hear: “Now—enough of that king-business. Forget ‘His Majesty Joachim-Napoléon’ and all those titles they pile upon me. Tonight, you dine not with a king, but with your Murat—brother, comrade, horseman of horsemen. Eh?” He slapped Lasalle on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “Come, come—the table is set, the candles are blazing, and the wine—ah, the wine will make even you sing!”

Without waiting for protest, Murat seized him by the elbow and began to usher him forward, all but dragging him through the glittering halls. His cape trailed behind in a grand sweep, attendants scrambling to keep up with his pace.

Fortunately, the Afterlife has allowed me to remain my own age, and thus I have not changed much. But of course, I must present my best self to the King of Naples, not that I don't to everyone else. To do otherwise would be improper. I am sure that someone like you understands the importance of a good impression, yes?

He is taken very much by surprise by Murat's affection, smiling as he is reassured that his meticulous appearance has not been damaged.

How could I not answer, Monseigneur? And an invitation from a King, at that? Why, it would be an insult.

Most wine is capable of bringing me energy for singing, you will find, one must only ask the Lancers of the Imperial Guard, but fine wine is certainly a special thing.

The tapestries do certainly look expensive. Being so active in the army, Lasalle has rarely had the luxury of remaining at home for terribly long, and thus has had little time in his life to acquire homebound collections of this sort. His house in Paris is but a modest one on a modest street, being quite comfortable enough for his wife and children, and for him on the rare occasion that he managed to stay there in life. These days, of course, he is perpetually on campaign, and has not been back to the house in a long time. Even laying in a real bed at Thiébault's while recovering from his wounds felt strange and alien, his body quite used to cots in tents.

This is not to say he is not a collector. Indeed he is, but of items that are more easily portable; in particular fine swords and good maps. The sword by his side is an excellent example of the former collection, and he draws it partly out of its equally extravagant scabbard to display part of the black damascus blade. The handle and hilt are suitably decorated to match, of course.

My collections tend to be of the more portable sort, considering that I rarely have the luxury of a house or any permanent place to sleep. This blade is a favourite; indeed, no expense spared in its construction either, and it cut through solid iron bars in life. Sadly, I never had the opportunity to use it on a real target, though some would consider it too fine for such vulgarity.

“Ha! I didn’t expect you to be so proper, Lasalle. ‘Impressions,’ you say — oh, yes, I know the value of them. I am a man who has made a career out of impressions!” He flourished one hand over his coat, a garment of course practically drowning in embroidery, medals, and gold braid. “Every thread here shouts: ‘Murat, King, Cavalier, Emperor’s brother, conqueror of Naples!’ They may laugh, they may sneer — but not one soul who sees me forgets me. And that, my brother, is the key to rule, to war, to life itself. To ride into a battle is not enough — you must arrive in it! And you, Lasalle — ah, you arrive the moment your sabre clears its scabbard!”

He released him only to pace a few steps ahead, his cape swirling dramatically behind him as twirled himself around and began walking backwards while he gestured wildly to the sword in Lasalle’s hand.

“And what a jewel that is! Look at it — if I had seen such a blade in life, I would’ve gone to war just to justify wearing it! You decadent creature! I knew you had taste, but this — this is gallantry forged! And you — you say it cut iron?” He raised both hands skywards as he continued his backpedaling movement. “Iron bars? Ha! And here I thought only your voice could shatter them! Magnifique! But more — more! — it speaks of you. A soldier who carries his treasures at his hip! Swords, maps, the tools of war — that is the mark of a man who lives the life, not one who plays at it. A sword wants to drink, as a hussar wants to charge. A blade unused is like a stallion kept in the stable: miserable, wasted, criminal! What a tragedy that the blade was never used on a proper enemy.”

He circled Lasalle like an overexcited showman, hands gesturing wildly, cloak whipping at his heels, his voice rising with every word. “And your portable treasures? Your swords and maps? Mais oui! Of course! What else for Lasalle, scourge of every frontier? What need have you of palaces? Bah! You are a palace unto yourself, a monument in boots! You need no walls but the walls of a saddle, no roof but the sky! Voilà! You shame all this marble!”

Murat stopped, spun on his heel, and seized Lasalle’s shoulders again, shaking him lightly as though to make sure his words sank in. “But listen to you! Spoiled, by war alone? No, Lasalle, no! That is the soldier’s curse, not his indulgence. You speak of duty, of homeland, of war — yes, yes, noble, splendid, all the right words — but let Murat tell you something plain: a sabre such as yours, a spirit such as yours, must be fed with fire, with wine, and with song! Otherwise, what is the point of glory? Eh?” Murat pressed on, his words tumbling over each other. “We win battles so that we may live like kings — even if only for an evening. Spoiled is to live, to feast, to laugh until you choke, to kiss the hand of fortune and snatch its jewels before they slip away.” He jabbed a finger toward the ceiling as if swearing before Heaven itself. “And I swear by God and by every star above Naples — you shall be spoiled tonight. You have given enough blood, enough sweat, enough steel. This evening, your spoils are my friendship — my table, my hearth, me!”

He let out another delighted laugh and swept his arm around Lasalle once more, propelling him through another gilded corridor. Attendants hurried to open doors before them as Murat thundered on, his voice never dropping below the pitch of command.

“Bien! It is true, Lasalle — soldiers like us are restless. But I tell you this: every king, every emperor, every soldier, no matter his rank, must steal moments. Steal them, grasp them, drink them deep! Tonight is one such moment. Tomorrow, perhaps, you ride to war again in these cursed after-realms. But tonight—” He gestured grandly as they entered the vast dining chamber, where a table glittered with silver and crystal under a hundred candles. “Tonight, you will sit here, not as a guest, not as a servant, but as a brother. And if Naples itself must rise from its foundations to please you — then so be it!”

Lasalle chuckles at Murat's apparently disbelief about the abilities of his sabre, somewhat fighting disorientation due to the man's constant movement.

Indeed, Sir, iron bars, and just about everything else I put it up against. I would have worn it to battle if I had been able. And maps, yes, practical things indeed, but they can also be beautiful, and they enrich one's knowledge of the world, a thing I daresay is essential to a soldier.

And indeed, what use has one for maintaining an expensive large house that will only sit mostly unused? It is pointless, and I have nothing to prove through such displays to pretend to greatness. It is one of few things I regret about this new order of the world: every young man feels the need to prove himself as worthy through impressive trinkets with no purpose other than intimidation. I suppose partly it may be my fault, but while nice things are nice, I have already proven myself.

He listens quite intently to Murat as he speaks of his concept of glory and spoiling, but he simply laughs, a smile punctuating his face. Of course a man like Murat would believe so, but what has always separated Lasalle from any other soldier is his love for war itself, the act of the charge and of fighting.

No, no, you see, this is where I will always disagree with everyone, for it seems I do not think the same way.

To serve, to go to war, to fight is not a curse, I dread to think that a man thinks it is. It is the greatest pleasure in life, indulgence in of itself, and indeed a privilege. To arrive on the field of battle on a crisp morning to the smell of powder, to charge into the smoke with only your horse and your own ability to rely on - that is my lifeblood, my first happiness.

Many men, it seems, feel compelled to fight by a false notion of what they call duty. But duty ought not to be an obligation, it ought to be fulfilment, happiness... A soldier who feels forced by duty to fight is a miserable one, to which I can attest. There is no need for war to be an inconvenience, when a soldier ought to be brought joy by the sounds of opportunity.

To be a cavalryman is not to feel obligated by a notion of courage to charge, it is to love it, crave with one's heart each opportunity for action. To be an artilleryman is not to slave over a gun, but to nurture it, know its imperfections intimately so that it may be at its most efficient. To be an engineer is to solve a problem purely through one's mind craving such things. And, of course, to defy Death in the course of those actions through only your own boldness and skill.

That, Sir, is glory, and to prove yourself in that sentiment in battle is to be spoiled for advancement, rewards, friends. My spoils are what I earn for myself by doing so; you are a relation of the Emperor, you know for yourself whether he has ever allowed me to want for anything, and to earn the affection of a great man is among the greatest achievements. If he did not see fit to trust me in action, and spoil me with opportunities for it, then I would not be half of the man I am.

He follows Murat as he leads him through an assortment of more corridors, pondering his statement about moments, eventually nodding.

Ah, yes, moments - those are to be taken, whether in action or otherwise. Of course, I would know a thing or two about seizing moments, I'm sure you know. An excellent source of entertainment, yes, and of most ludicrous societies that would bring me scandal to speak of.

As he sits down, he glances around the dining room, his ancien régime table manners soon making themselves known, at least when in the presence of a monarch. Of course, his table manners in other situations have been known to be... Somewhat chaotic, but he does want to appear proper before Murat.

“Ho there! You see him, do you not? À table! À table! My guest, my brother, my lion of the Guard sits here and speaks — and yet his cup is dry! Every dish fit for a king — no, fit for a hussar! Attend him, you villains, he has cheated death itself to sit at my table! My brother-in-arms has returned, and he shall not want for a thing tonight!”

The startled attendants scattered like pigeons at musket fire, rushing to obey and hurrying forward with pitchers, platters, steaming tureens. Murat beamed, directing them with grand sweeps of his arms, akin only to a conductor orchestrating an opera.

“Wine for him, the oldest vintage you can find — no, older! Bread, meat, every fruit of the South! Faster, messieurs, faster, do you want me to think you Austrians?” He barked a laugh at his own joke, immediately cringing and grimacing, before he promptly slammed a goblet before Lasalle, filling it to the brim himself as though to ensure no delay.

Only once his “precious guest” was ringed by a feast did Murat collapse back into his chair, tugging at his sash with a satisfied sigh. He leaned forward, eyes glittering, hands tapping the table as though he could hardly contain himself.

“You want to know what became of the world after your fall? Bien. I shall tell you everything.” He raised his goblet in a toast to his guest before launching into his tale with the flourish of a battlefield proclamation.

“You fell at Wagram, 1809 — July, you dog. Napoleon crushed the Austrians, yes, yes, victory on the Danube, the whole army roaring. But you — you were not there to see it! We won, and yet I say it plain: it was no victory. We lost you, so many of the best men. Bessières found himself wounded and — Oudinot, in his usual fashion, did as well — our fire dimmed that day! I swear to you, Lasalle, it was as if Mars himself began to take back his favourites. Every jewel in the crown of the Grande Armée snapped off, one by one. The battle was ours, but the war? The war went to rot without you.”

He slapped the table, hard enough that a few forks rattled across the cloth. “They signed the Treaty of Schönbrunn that autumn. Austria bled land, we triumphed on paper, but the soul — our soul — was thinner. And yet — hah!” He leaned in. “It only ushered in the height of our glory. 1810, 1811 — Your Emperor was nearly untouchable.”

Murat straightened in his chair, hands spreading wide as if to embrace the whole hall. “He cast Josephine aside, poor dear, and bound himself to Austria by marriage — Marie Louise, a girl as fresh as spring! And in 1811, the child came. The King of Rome! Napoleon’s son! His heir! Oh, Lasalle, the city rang with bells, the guns thundered for hours, Paris itself danced!”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, his grin returning in full. “I heard the news in Naples, and I did not wait for an invitation. No, no, not Murat! I leapt to horse, I thundered north. Straight to Paris! No announcement, for who needs those? — bah! I stormed into the Tuileries like a cannonball, shouting, ‘Where is the child? Where is the King of Rome? Show him to me!’”

“Duroc was mortified. They had no chamber for me — none! The palace full to bursting, every bed taken by some ambassador or princeling come to coo at the babe. So where do they lodge Murat, King of Naples? Ha! In Lebrun’s apartments! The Arch-Treasurer himself not even at home, his son away on mission, his poor daughter-in-law God knows where. They shoved me into the rooms, sent a chamberlain with apologies, and begged me not to disturb the furnishings!”