Chapter Text
“Every man’s work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man’s work of what sort it is.”
— 1 Corinthians 3:13
22 January 1809
Zaragoza, Spain
The slurry of snow and mud sucked at his horse’s hooves, the cold biting through his coat despite its thick woolen lining. Zaragoza loomed ahead of him: a sprawling, battered city already half destroyed by the French siege in the summer, which had failed to take it. Cannons rumbled like low thunder, and the familiar acrid aroma of gunpowder clogged his mouth and nose. Beneath the snow and ice, the stench of decay drifted with the shifting wind from the city. How many dead were behind those walls?
His horse’s hooves crunched over frozen mud, and Lannes adjusted his seat in the saddle. Duty was duty, and if the Emperor himself had seen fit to place this bitch of a siege under his command, then he would handle it with the expediency expected of him.
Jean Lannes — Marshal of the Empire and the Duke of Montebello — tightened his gloves, clenching his jaw against the chill as he scanned the landscape for signs of life — or, more accurately, of death. The frozen bodies that littered the outskirts of the city made it clear enough how this siege was going.
Lannes, go here, Lannes, go there, the Emperor told him. And he did.
The Third Corps of the Armée d’Espagne sprawled on the southern bank of the Rio Huerva, endless rows of tents stretching away into the distance. Smoke rose in pungent black ribbons, and from here he could hear the familiar sounds of army life: the groans and complaints of soldiers, the rhythmic scrape of spoons against pots, the soft rip of cloth being mended under busy needles, the shuffling and grunts of animals.
Ahead, a group of officers waited outside a makeshift headquarters. Lannes could already see the slouched figure of General Jean-Andoche Junot among them. He felt something twist and shudder inside of him as he met Junot’s eyes.
Junot had been a different creature back when they had been younger men, and they had carved their way through Italy, and then Egypt — a fierce soldier with a glint of ambition in his eye and an unflinching hand with a blade. They’d fought side by side, damn near inseparable at times. They’d all been like brothers then, he reflected: him, Junot, Marmont, Bonaparte. But that had been years ago, and the man standing before him now barely resembled his old friend. He didn’t resemble anyone at all.
“Marshal Lannes!” Junot called, raising a hand in greeting. His voice carried a strained enthusiasm, a forced energy that rang hollow. His face was pale, gaunt, his eyes ringed with dark shadows that made him look older than he was. The scar at his temple was flushed white. There was something that might have passed as a smile, but the barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth didn’t escape Lannes’ notice.
“Junot,” Lannes replied, swinging himself out of his horse’s saddle and handing his reins to an aide. He squared his shoulders and walked over, his boots crunching through the snow. “The Emperor sends his regards — and the responsibility of cleaning up this bloody mess.”
Junot laughed, a short, sharp bark that sounded more like a cough. He extended a hand, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, as though he were unsure if Lannes would accept it. The Emperor had denied Junot a marshal’s baton, leaving him stewing in volatile jealousy that caused Lannes to keep a wary eye around him. Lannes took Junot’s offered hand anyway, gripping firmly, feeling the brittleness of the bones beneath his glove.
“Mess?” Junot echoed with a faint smile. The pupils of his pale eyes constricted to pinpricks. “It’s under control, I assure you. Under control. Just … delays. The Spaniards fight like demons, and the informants say this city is a maze, every building is a fortress.”
Lannes snorted, releasing Junot’s hand. “Delays, my ass. This is a shitshow, Junot, and you know it.” His voice was low and blunt, unafraid of offending. “I can smell the rot from here. You’ve been at this for weeks, and it looks like you’ve barely made a dent.”
Junot’s smile twitched again at Lannes’ bold accusation, but he didn’t respond immediately. He looked away, his eyes glazing over the icy landscape as though searching for some excuse, some justification. Lannes had seen that look before — a man trying to grasp at wisps of thought that ran like sand, struggling to make sense of the chaos. It was a look he never thought he’d see on Junot.
“Lannes,” Junot said finally, and he could hear the spider web of cracks beneath. “This city … it’s not like anything we’ve faced. The people … there’s something not right with them. They’re willing to die in the streets, in their homes, with their families. I’ve seen children, women, old men, all armed. They’re not soldiers, but they fight like it. They believe … I don’t know, in something, something strong enough to make them hold out even as they starve.”
“Belief,” Lannes muttered, a derisive snort escaping him. “Belief’s just another way of saying they’re too fucking stupid to know when they’re beaten. The whole lot of them are clinging to that basilica like it’s going to save them.” He shook his head. “We’re not here to debate faith, Junot. We are here to win. I don’t give two shits what they think they’re fighting for. It won’t save them.”
Junot’s eyes darted, a flash of something — anger, maybe, or fear — crossing his face. “You don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “They’ll fight and die to the last man. They’re … relentless.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he laughed, a strange, high-pitched sound that made Lannes’ skin crawl.
Then Junot’s laugh faded, and he shook his head slowly, his tired features tightening. “It’s Palafox. He’s no ordinary commander, Lannes. He’s stayed in there — leading them, fighting with them. To these people, he’s their saint. Their priest. Their king.”
His reply was tinged with scorn and bitterness. “A saint? He’s just another fucking blue blood, waving his crosses and making his peasants die for him. And they’re too stupid or desperate to see it.”
Junot’s pale eyes flashed with something — anger, or maybe despair. “You haven’t seen how they fight, Lannes. Starving, freezing, dying — and they still fight. They love him.” His voice dropped, suddenly quieter, his gaze flickering away to gaze upon something only he could perceive. “They’d follow him to hell.”
Lannes snorted, and his voice took on an edge as sharp as any blade. “They’re already in hell, and Palafox sent them there. He’s no saint, Junot. He’s a coward hiding behind peasants and piety. And I shit all over him and his entire aristo bloodline.”
He narrowed his eyes, studying his old comrade more closely. The signs were subtle, but they were there. The strained gaze, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly, the strange bursts of laughter — Junot was unraveling. It wasn’t the first time Lannes had seen it; he’d known men who’d gone mad from the weight of command, from the relentless pressure of the Emperor’s demands, the ceaseless violence. But this was Junot. Junot, who had once laughed with him over half-empty bottles of wine, who had faced down Mamluks with him in Egypt. Seeing him like this was like a festering wound.
He let out a sigh, more a grunt than anything. “Look, Junot,” he said, keeping his voice low, his tone softer but still edged with impatience. “I know this war wears on you. I’m not here to dress you down. We’ve all had our battles, seen things we’d rather forget. But I need you to hold it together.” He paused, glancing at the men standing around them, their eyes fixed firmly ahead, pretending not to notice. “You’re the damn general here. Act like it.”
Junot’s face tightened, the smile vanishing as he clenched his jaw. “I am acting like it, Marshal. This siege — this whole godforsaken city — it’s a nightmare, but I haven’t abandoned my post.”
“No,” Lannes replied, nodding slowly, “but you’re barely holding it. And if you can’t keep a steady hand on things, it’ll tear this army apart from the inside.” He glanced down, pressing his gloved fingers to his temple. “Listen, the Emperor sent me here to take command. He knew you’d fought hard, but it’s time for you to take a step back. I’ll be taking over.”
Junot’s expression fell, his shoulders sagging as if Lannes’ words had broken something fragile within him. Lannes had been warned in advance about Junot’s enraged outburst when he’d been informed that he was coming to take over his command, but none of that anger was on display now. Now Lannes almost regretted the bluntness of it, but there was no other way. He wasn’t about to mince words when lives were at stake, and Junot’s deterioration was risking the entire campaign. Zaragoza needed a steady hand and, right now, Junot wasn’t it.
For a moment, Junot said nothing, his gaze drifting over the snow-covered battlefield. When he finally spoke, his voice was a whisper, laced with something that sounded too close to defeat. “I suppose … that’s for the best, isn’t it?” His eyes met Lannes’, searching, maybe even pleading. “You’ll finish it, then. Whatever it takes?”
Lannes nodded, his jaw set. “Whatever it takes.”
Junot exhaled a shaky breath, nodding in return. “Good,” he muttered, his gaze lowering to the ground. Then he reached out an ungloved hand to touch Lannes’ sleeve, and he couldn't tell if Junot’s fingers were trembling from the cold or fraying nerves. Junot looked him in the eye, and it seemed to Lannes one pupil had gone slightly larger than the other. “Just … remember, these people — they’re fighting for something we can’t see. It’s more than land or titles or gold. It’s … it’s in their blood.”
Lannes shrugged, but didn’t brush away Junot. “I don’t care if they’re fighting for the fucking moon. They bleed just like anyone else. And if they want to die for it, then that’s their choice. We gave them a chance to clear out for months, and if they didn’t take it, that’s on them.” He turned, nodding to the waiting officers, signaling them to follow.
He frowned, and leaned towards Junot, speaking gently in his old comrade’s ear, “Get your things in order, Junot. You’re heading back to the rear lines.” Lannes reached out and patted the other man’s shoulder. “Rest. Maybe even see a doctor when you get back to Paris. You need it.”
Junot’s chuckle was like a death’s rattle that made Lannes want to grit his teeth. “A doctor,” he murmured, his fingers reflexively tracing the scar at his temple. “Perhaps I do.”
As Lannes walked away, he could feel Junot’s gaze on his back, the weight of his old friend’s broken spirit hanging heavy in the air. He didn’t look back. There was nothing to say, nothing that could repair what was unraveling in Junot’s mind. The man he’d known in Italy and Egypt, the fierce soldier, the daring commander, the joking card sharp — he was gone. In his place was a wraith haunted by battles both within and without.
Lannes couldn’t dwell on this now; he had no time to grieve the man Junot had been. His mind was already shifting to the task at hand. Zaragoza would fall. He’d make sure of it, with or without whatever cursed zealotry the people clung to. He was here to finish this at last, to crush the Spanish resistance and deliver the city to the Emperor. He would do it with as few of his men lost as possible. And if he had to be brutal, relentless, and unforgiving to make that happen, if he had to level the city brick by brick until there was no stone left on top of the other, then that was the way it was going to be.
Marshals Moncey and Mortier had broken themselves against Zaragoza’s walls, and then General Junot. Now it was Lannes’ turn.
A light snow had begun to fall, and through the mist he could see the spires of the Basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar, as the Spanish called it. The soaring towers and domes reminded him of the minarets he’d seen in Egypt — another campaign where belief and defiance had been paid in blood. Between him and the basilica at Zaragoza’s heart were pitiless and formidable walls and a populace that had already repelled one French attempt to bring it to heel. He glared at the city’s smoldering silhouette as if it had personally offended him, and he muttered under his breath, “Goddamn fanatic bastards. I’ll give them something to believe in.”