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Frenchmen roared with laughter and clapped him affectionately on the shoulder.
    One of those who spoke Italian leaned over him. ‘You’re a proper soldier now. Except that you must take the oath.’ He straightened up and raised his right hand. ‘Monsieur Buona Parte, please raise your hand.’
    For a moment Naboleone hesitated. These were Frenchmen, after all, and despite his mother’s friendship with the governor, she was prone to utter dark sentiments about the new rulers of Corsica. But Naboleone looked down at his beautiful uniform, with the gilt-painted handle of the sword sticking out of his belt. Then he looked up into the smiling faces of the men gathered around him and felt a keen desire to belong amongst them. He raised his hand.
    ‘Bravo!’ someone cried out.
    ‘Now, little Corsican, repeat after me. I swear undying obedience to His Most Catholic Majesty, King Louis …’
    Naboleone echoed the words thoughtlessly as he revelled in the joy of becoming a soldier and the thought of all the adventures he might have; of all the wars he might fight in; of how he would be a hero, leading his men in a gallant charge against terrible odds, and triumphing to the resounding cheers of his friends and family.
    ‘There! That’s it, young man,’ the French soldier was saying. ‘You are one of us now.’
    But Naboleone’s thoughts remained with his family. As he glanced back towards the harbour the first lamps were already being lit along the street and in the windows of the houses.
    ‘I have to go,’ he muttered, gesturing in the direction of his home.
    ‘Oh!’ the soldier laughed. ‘Deserting already!’
    Naboleone started to undo his buttons, but the soldier stayed his hand. ‘No. The uniform’s for you. Keep it. Anyway, you’re a King’s man now, and we’ll be expecting to see you on duty again soon.’
    Naboleone surveyed the coat with a look of disbelief. ‘It’s mine? To keep?’
    ‘But, of course! Now run along.’
    The boy’s eyes met the soldier’s. ‘Thank you,’ he said softly, little fingers closing around the hilt of the toy sword.‘Thank you.’
    As he moved towards the edge of the small group of soldiers they parted before him, as if he were a general and when he turned back someone shouted an order and they all shuffled to attention with wide grins and saluted. Naboleone, stern-faced, returned the salute, then turned about and marched down the street towards his home, feeling as tall as a man and as grand as any king.
    Behind him the Frenchmen settled back to their evening ration of sausage, bread and wine. The soldier who had dressed Naboleone watched the little boy strutting down the road and he smiled in satisfaction before he rejoined his comrades.

Chapter 5
    By the time he had reached his home, night had fallen and Naboleone’s bravado had seeped away as he faced the prospect of sneaking back into his room without being caught. He waited in the entrance hall for a moment, ears straining to pick up any sounds in the house. From the first floor came the voices of Naboleone’s parents. He crept towards the stairs and then, keeping as close to the wall as possible to minimise any creaking of the boards, the boy stole upstairs. His heart was pounding at the tension in his body as he reached the top, squeezed through the door to his family’s rooms and started down the darkened corridor to the room he shared with Giuseppe. He never made it.The toy sword, jammed into his belt, suddenly scraped across a skirtingboard.
    Before the boy could dive the last few feet to his room, the door to the kitchen was wrenched open and a dim glow spilled into the corridor.
    ‘Where on earth … ?’ his father began, then there was a beat before his anger gave way to surprise. ‘What are you wearing? Come here, boy!’
    Naboleone warily made his way to the kitchen door, paused to remove his tricorn and look up at his father towering over him, then entered the room. His mother sat at the table.