The Confession
May 25, 1429
Gien, The King's Temporary Residence
The army was gathering at Gien, a town on the Loire, preparing for the next move.
Joan of Arc stood by the window, holding a piece of parchment. It was one of the woodcuts of INVICTUS. She looked troubled.
"Lucas is writing things that are not true, Sire," Joan said, not turning around.
Napoleon sat at his desk, reviewing supply lists. "Oh?"
"He says the arrow shattered against my skin like glass," Joan turned, touching the bandage on her ear. "But it didn't. It cut me. I bled. I fainted. If it had been an inch to the left, I would be dead."
She walked to the desk, placing the woodcut down.
"This picture... this halo. It is a lie. They say I cannot be touched. But I was.They say I was spared. I only survived."
Napoleon put down his quill. He looked at her, seeing the genuine distress in her eyes. She was too honest for politics.
"Joan," Napoleon stood up and poured two cups of water. He handed one to her.
"Do you know why a soldier fights?"
"For France? For God?"
"No," Napoleon shook his head. "He fights because he believes he can win. Truth is cold, Joan. It is a hard, dry bread. You cannot feed an army on truth alone."
He took a sip of water.
"They need wine. They need a fire to warm their hands. This..." He tapped the woodcut. "...this is the fire. It doesn't matter if the fire is painted. As long as it keeps them warm, it is a necessary lie."
The Silent Covenant
The room had gone quiet.
Joan stood with her hands folded before her, eyes lowered—not in shame, but in restraint.
Napoleon watched her carefully. He had interrogated generals, ministers, cardinals. None of them unsettled him the way this girl did.
He spoke gently, almost casually.
"Joan," he said, "tell me something. When those... voices speak to you—do they ever speak of Rome?"
She looked up, surprised by the question.
"No, Sire," she answered honestly. "They do not."
Napoleon nodded, as if confirming a detail on a map.
"And never of bishops? Councils? Bulls and seals?"
He smiled faintly. "No paperwork?"
A small smile flickered across her face as well.
"No," she said. "None of that."
Napoleon turned away, walking slowly toward the window.
"Then they are... inconvenient voices," he said. "In my experience, anything that bypasses institutions makes institutions nervous."
Joan hesitated.
"The Church must be careful," she said. "God does not always announce Himself where men expect Him."
Napoleon looked back at her sharply—but only for a moment.
"Yes," he said. "That is precisely the problem."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You understand, don't you, why some men would say what you are... is unfinished."
She nodded at once.
"I know," she said quietly. "I have not been examined. I have not been approved. I am not—" she searched for the right word, "—confirmed."
Napoleon watched her closely.
"And that does not trouble you?"
"It does," Joan admitted. "But obedience comes before recognition. Even saints were once only servants."
Something in her answer relaxed him.
Good, Napoleon thought. She knows the difference between belief and authority.
"That is a sensible distinction," he said. "Between what is, and what is declared."
He poured himself a cup of water, did not offer her one this time.
"You see, Joan," he continued, "France does not require perfection. It requires coherence."
She frowned slightly, not fully understanding.
"If what guides you cannot yet be translated into doctrine," Napoleon said, "then it must be... interpreted."
"By you?" she asked.
"By necessity," he replied.
She considered this, then bowed her head.
"If that is God's will," she said, "then yes."
Napoleon smiled—briefly, thinly.
Good, he thought again. She believes she is obeying Heaven.
He turned away from her.
"And if one day," he said, almost idly, "someone were to ask you whether I knew what you truly were—what would you say?"
Joan answered without hesitation.
"I would say you always knew I was nothing on my own," she said. "Only chosen for a task."
She paused, then added—simply, as if stating a fact:
"And that I acted in faith, even when certainty had not yet been given."
Napoleon nodded.
"That will be... sufficient."
They stood there for a moment longer, sharing the calm of an agreement neither had named.
Outside, a church bell rang in the distance—late, irregular, out of rhythm.
Neither of them noticed.
The Snake's Head
"Now," Napoleon swept the papers aside, revealing a large map of France. "Since we agree on who we are, let us decide where we go."
He pointed a finger directly at Paris.
"The English are terrified. Bedford is hiding behind his walls. Fastolf is broken. We have the momentum."
Napoleon's eyes burned with military logic.
"We march North. Immediately. We bypass the small towns. We hit Paris before they can reinforce it. We cut off the snake's head."
"Paris?" Joan frowned. She looked at the map, then at the King. "But... the Voices say we must go to Reims."
"Reims is a detour!" Napoleon slammed his hand on the map. "It is deep in enemy territory. It has no strategic value. It is just a cathedral! Paris is the capital. If we take Paris, the war ends."
"Strategy..." Joan whispered the word like it was foreign. "I do not know strategy, Sire."
She reached out and touched the spot on the map marked Troyes.
"But I know this. This is where they signed the treaty. The Treaty of Troyes. The paper that said you are not the King. The paper that sold France to the English."
She looked up at him, her eyes burning with a different kind of fire—not tactical, but emotional.
"Crowns are made after wars, not before." Napoleon said emotionlessly.
"A King without a Crown is just a warlord, Sire. You can take Paris, but you will enter it as a conqueror, not a Sovereign."
"The Treaty must be torn up," Joan said firmly. "Not with ink, but with holy oil. You must go to Reims. You must take back your name."
The Shadow of 1804
Napoleon stared at her.
A King without a Crown is just a warlord.
The words hit him harder than a cannonball.
Suddenly, the wooden walls of Gien faded away.
He was back in Notre Dame de Paris.
December 2, 1804.
The air was thick with incense. The Pope was holding the heavy gold laurel wreath. The organ was thundering.
He remembered why he did it. He remembered why he didn't just stay "First Consul."
Legitimacy.
Power is nothing if people don't believe it is Divine.
He looked at the girl. She wasn't looking at the roads or the supply lines. She was looking at his soul. She understood something about power that he, in his arrogance, had almost forgotten.
She is right, Napoleon thought. Paris is just a city. Reims is the mandate of Heaven.
The cynicism faded from his face. He looked at the map again. The road to Reims was long, dangerous, and filled with hostile cities—Auxerre, Troyes, Châlons.
It was illogical. It was romantic. It was... Imperial.
Napoleon looked up. He didn't see a peasant girl anymore. He saw a mirror of his own ambition.
"You are right, Maid," Napoleon said softly.
He traced the line from Gien to Troyes, and then to Reims.
"To Paris, we go as soldiers."
He looked her in the eye.
"But to Reims... we go as France."
He folded the map.
"Prepare the army, Joan. We march to the Coronation."
"Thank you, Sire," Joan bowed deeply.
"Do not thank me," Napoleon turned to look out the window, his back to her. "But remember this day. We are choosing the crown over the sword. Let us hope the weight of the gold does not crush us."