Beyond the Ghetto Gates Read online

  “Does the blood still flow in Paris?” another cried. “We don’t forget what you did to our daughter of Austria, fils de pute!” He spat dramatically into the river flowing beneath him, to the raucous cheers of his men.

  “Daughter of Austria?” Sebastian muttered to Daniel. “What are they . . . ?”

  “They mean Marie Antoinette.” Daniel rolled his eyes. Surely his comrade was teasing. “You remember? The woman who was once our queen?”

  One end of Sebastian’s mouth curled up. “Was she Austrian? Did I know that?”

  Daniel shook his head. Sebastian, cool as ever facing the enemy, was quick to joke. But Daniel, remembering the horrors of the executions in Paris during his childhood, the terror of a knock at the door at midnight, didn’t find him funny. He kept his tone light with an effort. “You’re an ignorant old warrior, aren’t you?”

  “I was fighting the British in America during those years,” Sebastian said with a chuckle, unashamed. “I kept my head down and hoped my cannon wouldn’t backfire. No time for politics.”

  Daniel watched as a cavalry unit was dispatched upriver, his friend Christophe among them. Their orders were to ford the river half a league above Lodi and surround the enemy. Christophe was leaning forward in his saddle, spurring his stallion onward, moving swiftly to the front of the close-packed huddle of horses.

  “Prepare to fight!” came the shout from a cavalry officer to their right. “Take the bridge!”

  “You! You!” cried their sergeant, coming up from behind and slapping Daniel and Sebastian on the shoulder. “Deploy the cannon behind the cavalry.”

  Action kept Daniel’s fright at bay. He and Sebastian ran to take the small bronze cannon, wheeling it behind the men on horseback into a small clearing of hard-packed earth. Pierre followed, leading a pony and the cart loaded with grapeshot and round shot—cannonballs.

  “Hey,” cried one of the men as he tried to keep his excited mount in check. “Move that cannon away!”

  “We’re ordered here.” Daniel was sympathetic. The mere sight of a cannon made the troops nervous. A misfire killed or maimed more men than the enemy’s barrage.

  “Don’t fret, boy,” Sebastian told the horseman. “We won’t fire until you’re on your way downhill. You’ll hear our helpful cannonballs whistling overhead and be glad we’re clearing your path.”

  The rider, who looked perhaps sixteen, moved his skittish mare as far away as he could.

  “Allez! Allez! Take the bridge,” came the cry, and the grenadiers rushed forward. From his vantage point on a small rise above the scene, Daniel watched as they struggled at the foot of the narrow crossing, arranging themselves eight men abreast. Bullets whistled through the air as Austrian cannons demolished the head of the column. Spreading smoke befuddled the senses, while shouts and cries of pain rent the air.

  Soldiers shrank as lead missiles assailed them. Two of Napoleon’s commanders, Massena and Berthier, stood at the bridge’s entrance with drawn swords, urging the men forward, pelting them with curses and cheers. A burst of military music rang forth from the riverbank. In a quick shift of emotion, Daniel’s blood stirred with patriotic fervor.

  From a distance, a party of sharpshooters pushed off in rowboats from the riverbanks, heading toward an islet just below the bridge. Reaching it, the sharpshooters spun their boats sideways, huddling behind as they took careful aim at the Austrians.

  Daniel glimpsed Bonaparte astride a gray dappled roan, galloping toward them. His aides, a few paces behind, yelled at him to take cover.

  But the general moved into the thickest part of the battle, where Daniel and his fellows were laying in the artillery, feeding grapeshot into the cannon’s maw and exploding it over the heads of their troops. Their cannon fire just fell short of the enemy lines.

  “Move up! Cannons to the right and farther up!” Napoleon cried, dismounting from his stallion and throwing the reins to one of his aides. “Come on, men, move the cannons right.”

  “General, you should retreat to higher ground,” panted the red-faced officer who had seized the reins. Daniel recognized him as Major Junot, one of Bonaparte’s staff officers.

  “You won’t reach the Austrians from back here.” Napoleon, ignoring Junot, grabbed hold of one of the cannons, wheeled it forward several feet, and pointed it over to the right, where the enemy fire was heaviest. He turned his head, grinning, as he noticed his officers gaping at him. “Here, you sluggards, bring the rest here.”

  “But, General!” Junot protested, leading Napoleon’s horse forward, blanching as bullets whirled past his commander’s head.

  Daniel and the others hastened to obey. Frightened as he was to move into the rain of fire, Daniel was astonished by Bonaparte’s ice-cold calm.

  “Here, hand me the round shot,” Napoleon demanded, turning to Pierre. “I want to take out their artillery before they realize just how vulnerable we are.”

  He lay in the cannon shot like an expert. The heavy iron missiles boomed out of the red-hot mouth of the artillery and struck the Austrians squarely, taking out several cannons and a half-dozen men.

  “Again! Again!” Napoleon urged, seizing another cannonball from the ammunition cart.

  Realizing they couldn’t budge him, his staff officers settled nearby, clearly unhappy that Bonaparte—and they—were so exposed. Runners from other companies rushed up, and Daniel saw on their faces how bewildered they were to find the general amid the cannons. Each time he stopped, impatient, scanned their missives at a glance, and shouted orders that sent them scrambling: “Tell Berthier to press forward!” or “Lannes needs to support Dallemagne! Have him fall back and head toward the Austrians’ left flank!”

  He worked beside the men as the battle waged on, loading and firing, seemingly unaffected by the volleys of gunfire and the grapeshot that landed perilously close. Screaming, Pierre suddenly fell, clutching his shoulder. Napoleon stepped over his writhing frame to take his place. A hideous, whinnying moan made Daniel peer over his shoulder. Napoleon’s horse reared up on his hind legs, neighing wildly, blood rushing from his dappled flanks.

  “Shoot him,” Napoleon ordered Junot, white teeth set in a grimace, eyes bloodshot from smoke and dust.

  Still mounted, Junot took a long-handled pistol from a holster at his hip. Transferring the reins into his left hand, pulling the horse toward him, he shot him in the head. The horse’s legs gave out and he slipped to the ground. In an instant, a puddle of red surrounded his shattered head, blood gushing from his mouth. Daniel took several hurried steps backward.

  “Look! Look! They are halfway across!” Napoleon cried exultantly. But a moment later, the Austrians rallied, and a torrent of gunfire made the French troops pause, then pull back.

  “No, they mustn’t!” Napoleon shouted. “Junot, give me your horse!”

  The major slid down, tossing the reins to his commander. Napoleon swung into the saddle, riding furiously up the hill. “Keep up the cannon fire, boys!” he shouted over his shoulder, digging his heels into the reluctant mount, urging it into the midst of the retreating soldiers.

  “Messana! Cervoni! Have your men ford that river!” he called out.

  The two officers clambered down the shattered bridge joists into the river below, followed by their troops. They plunged into the waist-high water and moved swiftly toward the far bank. The Austrians, rattled by the determined French, shrank before their drawn bayonets. Daniel, wiping sweat and dirt from his eyes, saw the Austrians desert their guns and flee.

  “Come on!” Bonaparte called to the soldiers on the bridge. “Let’s cross!”

  The French, steadied by the sight of their sooty-faced commander, surged across the bridge in one massive thrust, forcing the enemy forces back. They taunted the Austrians as they fled in disarray.

  “The day is ours!” cried Pierre as he struggled to his feet, one hand clutching his bleeding and torn shoulder, face white under the smoke that darkened it. “Vive la France!”

  Tha
t evening, Daniel and his mates visited Pierre in the makeshift camp infirmary. Heartened to learn that their friend would soon recover, the men talked about the extraordinary way in which Napoleon had fought beside them.

  Screams and moans of the wounded rang out all around them. The air was redolent with the coppery smell of blood and the nauseating tang of infection. The little laudanum the doctors had received before the battle had quickly been depleted, and they were now offering rotgut to soothe the pain, saving their small supply of brandy for the officers. Every once in a while, the harsh grinding of a saw echoed through the tent, a sound that set Daniel’s teeth on edge; he knew it meant someone was losing a limb. He was glad that Pierre, at least, had avoided anything worse than a few days confined to a hospital cot.

  “He lay in cannon as well as any corporal I know,” Sebastian said admiringly. “Like he was one of us.”

  “Our little corporal,” Pierre said, propped against the wadded mass of his tunic. “To think we were worried when he first arrived in camp.”

  “Cool as a cucumber.” Sebastian nodded. “His horse mortally wounded and all he said was, ‘Shoot him, Junot.’”

  Daniel reached for a roll of lint and took off his boots. A water blister had exploded; the open wound was red and angry. The pain had completely disappeared during the battle, but returned the second they won the day. He took a basin from a sleeping soldier, washed his foot as best he could, and tightly bandaged it. “Bonaparte’s a marvel,” he murmured, lips compressed as he wound the lint about his throbbing limb. “A truly great man.”

  8

  MAY 15 MILAN

  The troops entered Milan, marching under a triumphal arch draped with flowers and twisting vines. Someone had raised the French flag just outside the arch. Soldiers and young boys stood on the city walls, waving hats and cheering, as company after company marched below them. Inside the city, the roar of the crowd was deafening.

  Christophe cantered up on his ink-black stallion. “Do they truly love us, or is this just for show? Would they cheer just as loudly if the Austrians marched into the city?”

  “Who cares?” Sebastian shrugged. “Look at that pretty wench over there. See? The one bending and showing us her . . .”

  Daniel blushed. Despite his shorn hair and clean-shaven chin, his Orthodox Jewish upbringing still clung to him. He was accustomed to girls who were modest and covered their chests, not these lighthearted, light-skirted women who tossed roses and called bold invitations to the Frenchmen they thought most handsome.

  Daniel realized as Christophe rode off that his friend was receiving a lot of this attention. During the two scant months of the campaign, his hair had brightened in the strong Italian sun to a brilliant gold, his face become bronzed, and he wore his blue cavalry uniform lightly, shoulders broad under its wide red lapels. Daniel grinned as he watched his friend rejoin the battalion, a red rose in his buttonhole, blowing kisses to the prettiest of the signorinas. He wouldn’t be surprised if Christophe found a warmer bunk tonight than his narrow soldier’s bedroll.

  The idea stirred Daniel’s blood. You couldn’t live in the army and ignore the lure of sex. Still, he intended to honor his religion, his family, and his bride by remaining a virgin until his wedding night.

  The next morning, the men awoke to new orders—to rest, refurbish their equipment, and enjoy the delights of Milan. A great, heaving exhalation rose from the campfires as Daniel’s fellows contemplated staying in one spot for a full eight days. Many a tin cup of the muddy mess that passed for coffee was raised in ardent relief.

  “That’s perfect,” Christophe said, taking breakfast with Daniel. “Lissandra will be pleased.”

  “Ah, I wondered where you got to last night.” Sebastian laughed. “Trust you to find a sweet little signorina to cuddle.”

  Daniel said nothing, but he couldn’t help smiling. What would Christophe’s mother think? He laughed inwardly as he imagined Odette’s horror. Her beloved son, bedding a girl without the sacrament of marriage? Unthinkable.

  9

  MAY 18 MILAN

  Christophe stretched, his bare feet tickled by hay. Lissandra lay beside him, breathing rhythmically, breasts peeking over her tangled chemise, dark hair tousled. He leaned up on one elbow and looked down at her delicately flushed face, the long eyelashes brushing her high cheekbones. His desire grew.

  “Lissandra, cara mia,” he whispered, using the little bit of Italian he’d mastered. “Wake up.”

  Her eyes opened, and she smiled. He trailed his fingers under her skirts, and she sighed and turned onto her stomach to open her legs. He parted her thighs and moved between them.

  “Yes,” Lissandra moaned. “Christophe, my brave soldier, yes.”

  He could tell that she was ready for him. He plunged into her, feeling her tightness, groaning as she twisted her body and raised herself to her knees. He thrust deep. Her back rubbed up against his chest; she began to breathe in short gasps. He cupped one of her ample breasts from behind. She groaned. The nipple rose in his palm and as he rubbed it, he felt himself grow impossibly hard. He was close.

  The girl was heaving beneath him now, panting, matching thrust for backward thrust. A gentleman, he knew, would wait until she found her own pleasure, but he was too far gone. With one strong push inside her, reaching as deep as he could, he expelled his seed, let it ripple out of him in wave after wave of shuddering ecstasy.

  He lay there for a moment, panting against her, sweat pouring down his body and mixing with hers. Then he pulled out, turned her to face him, and gave her the first kiss of the day.

  She eyed him, half-resentful, half-amused. “You are in a big rush,” she complained in bad French.

  “Sorry.” He brushed her dark ringlets from her sweat-slicked breasts, leaned over and kissed first one, then the other. “You’re irresistible, chérie.”

  She moaned again, and he decided to make amends for his impatience. He bent his head and kissed her exposed sex. He used his tongue and fingers to make her pant. Her legs curled around his head as he pleasured her. He could feel her tension rising and licked harder. After sleeping with so many girls throughout Italy, he knew exactly how to draw her over the precipice. Within minutes, she was gasping beside him on the straw, irritation transformed into deep satisfaction.

  “Now we were both in a rush,” he told her.

  She just closed her eyes and snuggled close. He held her, thinking of his first woman. He’d been awkward then, but then the natural rhythms of the act had overtaken him. She’d had the grace to forgive him when he peaked too soon. He remembered how embarrassed he’d felt. And guilty, too, thinking of his mother and her preaching against the evils of fornication.

  He’d been about to leave for the army when his uncle Alain gave him a packet. Opening it, he’d found a small pile of empty sheaths made from some rubbery material.

  “Capotes anglaises,” Alain explained. “English overcoats. You wear them”—he gestured toward Christophe’s privates—“to protect yourself from pox.”

  “How dare you?” his mother burst out, snatching the condoms. “Encouraging him to sin!”

  Alain shrugged. “Odette, it’s only natural. The boy’s a soldier now. A dalliance here and there will do him no harm.”

  But Odette threw the sheep gut sheaths into the fire, where they crackled and smoked. “He’s a decent Catholic boy,” she fumed. “No matter what this Republic of yours says. He’ll keep himself pure for marriage.”

  “He’s a healthy young man,” Alain argued. “And he’ll act like one. Better he be protected. Do you want him to be infected? Or worse?”

  Odette had only turned away, shuddering.

  Her first letters to him after he’d left had been full of warnings against the sin of fornication; every once in a while, she still returned to the subject. But with a new batch of (often-forgotten) condoms in his kitbag, Christophe found it easier and easier to ignore her.

  “I have to report to camp.” He disentangled
himself from Lissandra. “I’ll come back tonight.”

  She sat up, pouting. “What if my brothers find out what you’ve done to me?” she wailed. “Or if I’m with child?”

  Christophe sighed. Why did they always ask this when it was too late? “Surely you’re not,” he said, buttoning his shirt. “And besides, be truthful. I wasn’t your first, was I?”

  “How dare you?” she retorted, snapping her legs shut. “I was a virgin, of course I was. You said you loved me. That was the only reason I agreed. And now”—her face puckered—“you’re going to leave me!”

  Christophe’s annoyance turned to amusement. He’d lost count of how many Italian beauties had tried this game. They wanted money—money he didn’t have. It could be months before he received his back pay. All he had was enough to cover the cost of the wine he bought before a night between the sheets. Or in the hay.

  “I’m a soldier. I go where I’m commanded.” He paused, noticing her quivering lips. Were those real tears? He shook off a twinge of guilt. “If it makes you feel better, go to church and confess your sins.” He laughed, reaching for his breeches.

  The lip trembling stopped. She stared at him, hurt shining in those beautiful dark eyes. “How dare you?”

  He shrugged. Deep down, he knew he was really punishing his mother for her strict piety. The girl’s hypocrisy simply made her a convenient target.

  “Don’t you come back tonight,” she spat. “I’ll tell my brothers what you made me do. They’ll kill you!”

  Christophe reached down, gathered her into his arms, and kissed her full lips. “Will you?” he whispered, stroking her hair gently. “Will you really?”

  She stretched against him like a cat. “Come back tonight,” she murmured, blinking up at him from under long eyelashes. “And find out.”

  “I will if I can, bella Lissandra,” he said, releasing her and sitting down to pull on his boots. Then the impulse to tease her grew too strong. “Unless I find someone else to share my bed tonight.”