Twelve years later, Augustus could hardly imagine having been that young or that naïve. That young, that naïve, and that eager.
Augustus cocked his head, listening. After this many years in the field, he could discern the subtleties of a silence, the way a painter could distinguish between the various forms of black. There was no listening presence from behind the door; he would have known her from the breathing.
Augustus turned back to Horace. “She’s gone,” he said. “What do you know?”
Leaning forward, Horace braced his palms on the knees of his breeches. His hands were too large for his frame, as if he hadn’t quite yet grown into his height. “The First Consul summoned Admiral Decres to Saint-Cloud. It was a warm day, so he left the window ajar. I,” he added modestly, “was beneath it.”
“What did you hear?”
“The fleet. They’re readying it.”
“Which fleet?” There was more than one.
“All of them!” Horace said excitedly. “The plan, it has been approved at last. I heard it direct from the First Consul’s lips. Save just one thing, all is readiness.”
Augustus didn’t need to ask, but he did. “For?”
“The First Consul, he is giving the orders for the invasion of England!”
Chapter 2
“Whither wend ye, sir?” Cytherea cried,
“And why hast thou come for me?
To drag me, O, so far from home!
Along the wine dark sea!”
“You really must stop poking at him like that,” said Jane, as the poet made his offended way out of the room.