The Buonaparte house in Ajaccio thrummed with the chaotic energy of a growing family, a stone walled sanctuary filled with the clamour of eight children. It was 1774, and at six years old, Napoleone Buonaparte, the second born, navigated the noisy tides of his siblings—Joseph, his elder by one year, followed by Lucien, Elisa, Louis, Pauline, Caroline, and the infant Jérôme. The air carried the rich scent of olive oil and fresh bread wafting from Letizia's kitchen, mingling with the shouts and giggles of children tumbling over one another. The small courtyard echoed with their play, a constant hum of life that made the house feel both lively and overcrowded. Amid this tumult, Joseph stood out—a calm, agreeable boy with a gentle smile that seemed to draw adults like moths to a flame. "Joseph will be a priest or lawyer," relatives often murmured, their voices laced with pride as they sipped wine or shared stories by the hearth. "He will bring honor to the family." Napoleone, with his fiery eyes and restless energy, felt those words like a persistent thorn, a shadow he couldn't escape, gnawing at him every time they were spoken.
One afternoon, the family gathered in the main room, the stone walls cool against the summer heat. Letizia bustled about, her hands dusted with flour as she prepared dough for the evening's bread. "Joseph, come help me with this," she called, her voice firm yet warm. Joseph, seven years old and already taller than his brother, moved with quiet grace to her side. "Yes, Mamma," he replied, rolling up his sleeves and kneading the dough with steady hands. Letizia nodded approvingly. "Good boy. You've a gentle touch—perfect for a priest or a lawyer one day."
Napoleone lingered near the doorway, watching with a scowl. The praise stung, a familiar ache in his chest. He kicked at a loose pebble on the floor, the clatter drawing Letizia's sharp glance. "Nabulio, stop that and find something useful to do," she said, her tone leaving no room for argument. He muttered under his breath, "Why always him?" but stayed put, his small fists clenched.
Uncle Matteo, a stout man with a graying beard, leaned back in his chair, sipping wine. "Joseph's got the makings of a scholar," he said, patting the boy's shoulder. "He'll bring honor to the Buonapartes, mark my words." Aunt Maria, fanning herself nearby, nodded. "So polite, so thoughtful. Not like some others," she added, her eyes flickering toward Napoleone with a hint of disapproval.
Napoleone's face flushed. "I can be useful too!" he protested, stepping forward. "I don't need to knead dough to prove it!" Letizia sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "Hush, Nabulio. Joseph listens and works. You'd do well to learn from him." Joseph glanced at his brother, offering a small smile. "Come help if you want," he said kindly. But Napoleone shook his head, turning away. "I don't need your help," he snapped, storming outside. The words echoed in his mind— honor to the family —fueling a quiet resentment. He sat under the fig tree, brooding, the dual voices within him stirring. Napoleone's fire raged, but Marcus's calm whispered, Observe, plan, rise above.
Later that day, the family settled in the main room again, the evening light softening the stone walls. Joseph sat by the hearth, a borrowed book in his hands, reading aloud from a tale of Saint Francis. His voice flowed smoothly, each word clear and deliberate. "And the saint spoke to the birds, teaching them to praise God," he read, glancing up with a shy smile. Uncle Matteo chuckled. "Beautiful, Joseph! You've a gift for storytelling. A priest's calling, surely." Aunt Maria clapped her hands. "Oh, yes, he'll be a fine man of the cloth."
Napoleone perched on a stool, his legs swinging restlessly. He watched Joseph, the jealousy twisting in his gut like a knot. "I can read too," he said suddenly, snatching a book from the table. He opened it, his fingers fumbling as he tried to mimic his brother. "The… the saint… uh…" The words tangled, his temper flaring as he stumbled. "This is stupid!" he burst out, slamming the book shut.
Letizia's head snapped up. "Nabulio, enough! Let your brother finish." Her voice was stern, and she pointed to the corner. "Sit and be quiet." Joseph looked at him, his expression soft. "It's not hard, Nabulio. Want me to help you?" he offered, holding out the book.
"No!" Napoleone snapped, crossing his arms. "I don't need your help. I can do it myself." But inside, he compared himself to Joseph—his brother's ease with words, his polite charm, the way he won smiles from everyone. Napoleone felt awkward, his thoughts sharp but his tongue clumsy. He's the head, he thought bitterly, but I'll be the sword. The idea took root, a secret drive fueled by Marcus's voice: Your strength lies in action, not words. Shape your destiny.
"Joseph's so good at this," Aunt Maria said, shaking her head in admiration. "Nabulio, you should watch and learn." Napoleone glared at the floor, his mind racing. I'll show them, he vowed silently, the fire within him burning brighter.
The next morning, the siblings and village boys gathered outside for a game of "war" near the old well. The sun beat down, casting long shadows as they divided into teams. "Joseph, you lead us!" Paolo called, clapping his hands. The others nodded, their voices rising in agreement. "He's the best at planning," said little Elisa, clutching her doll.
Joseph stepped forward, his tone calm. "Alright, let's set some rules. No roughhousing, and we'll negotiate if it gets heated." The group murmured approval, and he began assigning roles. Napoleone's face darkened. "Why him?" he demanded, pushing to the front. "I can lead better! I've got ideas!" The boys exchanged glances, and Paolo shrugged. "You're too loud, Nabulio. Joseph keeps us together."
"Quiet down," Joseph said gently, turning to organize the team. "We'll start with a march." Ignored, Napoleone stomped off to the side, his cheeks burning. "Fine, I don't need you," he muttered, crossing his arms. But his mind worked furiously, plotting. During the game, Joseph called out, "Let's talk peace with the other side. No need to fight hard." The team hesitated, nodding.
"No!" Napoleone shouted, stepping in. "Attack now! Follow me!" He grabbed a few boys—Lucien and a village lad named Marco—and whispered, "We flank them from the left. Quick!" His plan unfolded with precision, the small group darting around to surprise the rival team. The ambush worked, scattering the foes, and the victory left the group stunned. "How did you do that?" Marco asked, wide eyed. "I just saw it," Napoleone replied, a triumphant grin spreading. "Told you I'm better."
Joseph approached, his brow furrowed. "That was risky, Nabulio. We could've talked it out." Napoleone shrugged. "Talking loses wars. This wins them." The others murmured, some impressed, others wary, but the seed of his cunning had taken hold.
The afternoon sun dipped low, casting golden streaks across the Buonaparte courtyard as the children trickled back inside. Letizia stood at the threshold, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes scanning the group. The earlier game had left Napoleone flushed with victory, but his triumphant mood shattered as Letizia's voice cut through the air. "Nabulio, what was that shouting outside? You disrupted the whole street!" she scolded, her tone like a whip. She pointed to a overturned basket of figs near the door, evidence of the scuffle. "Look at this mess! Joseph helped clean without a fuss—why can't you?"
Napoleone kicked at the dirt, his face reddening. "I won the game, Mamma! They needed a leader, not a talker!" he protested, his voice rising. "Joseph just sits there while I do the work!"
Letizia's eyes narrowed. "Work? That was chaos, not leadership. Joseph, thank you for staying calm," she said, turning to her elder son with a nod. Joseph smiled softly. "It's nothing, Mamma. I just didn't want a fight." The praise stung Napoleone deeper, and he clenched his fists. "Why always him? I'm the one who fixed it!" he snapped.
"Enough!" Letizia barked, stepping closer. "Your temper will ruin you, Nabulio. Learn control, or you'll bring shame, not honor. Joseph listens—follow his example." She turned away, muttering about the day's chores, leaving Napoleone simmering. He glared at her back, resentment bubbling. She favors him because he's soft, he thought, but a part of him—Marcus's steady influence—whispered, Her strictness is strength. Use it.
Later, as Letizia oversaw the evening meal, Napoleone lingered nearby, watching her command the kitchen with iron will. She barked orders at Lucien to fetch water and chided Pauline for spilling flour, her presence dominating the room. "My mother is the only man in the house," he murmured to himself, the phrase slipping out unbidden. Joseph overheard and tilted his head. "What did you say?" he asked curiously.
"Nothing," Napoleone replied quickly, but the thought lingered. Letizia's discipline, though harsh, began to shape him, planting seeds of resilience amid his frustration.
That night, the house grew still, the only sounds the soft breathing of sleeping siblings and the distant crash of waves. Napoleone and Joseph lay awake on their shared mat, the dim glow of a single candle casting shadows on the walls. Joseph propped himself on an elbow, his voice dreamy. "I was thinking… maybe I'll be a scholar one day. Or a priest, like Uncle Matteo says. Imagine the peace of studying old books, helping people."
Napoleone stared at the ceiling, his mind restless. "Peace?" he said, his tone skeptical. "That sounds boring. All that sitting and praying—what good does it do?" Joseph chuckled softly. "It's not about good, Nabulio. It's about doing what's right. Don't you ever think about that?"
Napoleone rolled onto his side, facing his brother. "I think about more than that. I will not be a priest. I will be greater than all of them—greater than the bishop, greater than anyone in Ajaccio!" His voice carried a fierce conviction, startling the quiet.
Joseph laughed, a light, teasing sound. "You? Greater than the bishop? Don't be foolish, Nabulio. You can't even read a page without shouting!" He grinned, settling back onto the mat. Napoleone's eyes narrowed, the laughter fueling his resolve. "You'll see," he said, his voice low and firm. "I'll show you all. I'll do things you can't even dream of."
Joseph sighed, turning away. "Dream all you want, but don't wake me with it." The dismissal stung, but Napoleone lay back, his mind ablaze. Within him, Marcus's voice murmured, Let their doubt fuel your purpose. He clenched his jaw, the vow hardening. I will be greater.
The next morning, a commotion erupted near the village square. A group of boys—Paolo, Marco, and a few others—shouted angrily, fists raised over a basket of figs someone had stolen during the night. "Thieves! You took my share!" Paolo yelled, shoving Marco. The scuffle grew chaotic, dust flying as the children grappled. Joseph hurried over, his hands raised. "Stop it, everyone! Let's figure this out. Who took the figs?" he called, his voice steady but pleading. "We can share what's left."
The boys paused, some nodding, but the tension lingered. Napoleone pushed through the crowd, his eyes scanning the scene. "Talking won't fix this," he said loudly, stepping beside Joseph. "They'll just lie. We need to act!" Joseph frowned. "Nabulio, calm down. We can settle it peacefully."
"No!" Napoleone insisted. "You three—Marco, Lucien, with me. The rest, stay back." He pointed to a narrow alley where the thief might have fled. "We'll catch him ourselves." The chosen boys hesitated, but his commanding tone spurred them on. "Move quick—check the alley!" he ordered, leading the charge. They darted around, spotting a boy named Toni clutching the fig basket. "There he is!" Lucien shouted.
Napoleone devised a plan on the spot. "Marco, block the left. Lucien, the right. I'll take the front." The trio moved with surprising coordination, cornering Toni against a wall. "Hand it over," Napoleone demanded, his voice firm. Toni, outnumbered, dropped the basket, muttering, "Fine, take it!" The other boys cheered as Napoleone retrieved the figs, distributing them with a nod. "See? Action works," he said, brushing off his hands.
Joseph approached, his expression a mix of surprise and concern. "That was bold, Nabulio. You could've gotten hurt." Napoleone shrugged. "But I didn't. And we won." For the first time, Joseph's eyes held a flicker of respect. "You're clever," he admitted softly. "Maybe too clever." Napoleone smirked. "You'll see more of it."
The brothers walked home together, the afternoon sun warming the cobblestone path. Joseph carried the fig basket, his steps measured. "You did good today," he said kindly, offering a fig. "Thanks," Napoleone replied, taking it but saying little else. Joseph smiled. "Don't be so serious all the time. We're brothers, not enemies."
Napoleone nodded absently, his mind elsewhere. They're all blind, he thought, his stormy thoughts brewing. Joseph can have his peace. I'll have my glory. As they reached the house, he glanced at his brother's calm profile, then ahead to the horizon. They will see. I will be greater than Joseph, greater than all Corsica.