He turned round and felt his pulse quicken as he caught sight of the low stone mass of the citadel jutting out into the gulf. To the left a thin strip of yellow revealed the beach that stretched down from the jumble of pale buildings with red-tiled roofs of Ajaccio. In there, a few minutes’ walk from the sea, was the home where he had grown up from an infant into the small boy. That was many years ago, he reflected with rising emotion. The brig’s approach to the port was a journey he had done many times in fishing boats, but now it seemed unfamiliar so that he might have been approaching a strange land. He suddenly felt the loss of all those years he might have had in Ajaccio. Time he could have spent with his father, who would not have died almost a stranger to his son.

With only the triangular driver set, the ship ghosted across the still water of the harbour, heading towards an empty stretch of the quay. Several fishermen were sitting cross-legged on the cobbles, tending to their nets, and some of them paused in their work to watch the approach of the brig.

The porters lounging in the shade of the customs house stirred and made their way over to the quay to take the mooring ropes that the brig’s crew had made ready to cast ashore. The cables snaked across the narrow gap of open water, were caught, looped round a bollard, and then the men drew the brig into the quay until it nudged up against the hessian sack stuffed with cork. Napoleon had asked that his chest and valise be brought up when they had entered the gulf, and now he sat on the chest and waited impatiently for the crew to complete the mooring and lower the gangway so he could go ashore. After a short delay the master called out the order and the men ran the narrow ramp out, over the side, and on to the quay, then securely lashed down the end on the ship. Napoleon beckoned to one of the porters.

‘Get me a handcart.’

‘Yes, sir.’

While he waited for the man to unload his luggage, Napoleon crossed the gangway and set foot on the quay. He felt a wave of happiness at the firm touch of his homeland once again. He strolled slowly down the quay towards the nearest of the fishermen. The face was familiar, and he made the connection in an instant. This was the man whose foot Napoleon had stamped on years before. The fisherman glanced up at the thin youngster in a French uniform. Napoleon smiled and greeted the man in the local dialect.

‘Does Pedro still work the fishing boats?’

‘Pedro?’ The man frowned.

‘Pedro Calca,’ Napoleon explained. ‘I’m certain that was his name.’

‘No. He died four years ago. Drowned.’

‘Oh . . .’ Napoleon was saddened. He had briefly hoped to impress the old man with his smart uniform.

The fisherman was looking at him closely. ‘Do I know you? Your face seems familiar.You don’t speak like a Frenchman.’

‘We met before, but it was a long time ago.’

The man stared at Napoleon a moment longer, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t remember.’

Napoleon waved a hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. Another time, maybe.’

He glanced back towards the brig and saw that the porter, helped by one of the sailors, was struggling ashore with the chest. When they reached the quay they heaved the chest into the handcart and set it down with a loud thud as Napoleon strode towards them.

‘What’s in that one, sir?’ The porter’s chest was heaving from the strain of lifting the chest. ‘Gold?’

‘Of a kind. Poor man’s gold.’ Napoleon laughed. ‘Books. Just books.’

‘Books?’The porter shook his head.‘What would a young man want a chest of books for?’

‘To read them, perhaps.’

The porter shrugged, not quite sure of the sanity of the young army officer. ‘So where are you lodging, sir?’

‘I’m not lodging. I’m going home.’

The valise on the cart, they set off, Napoleon leading the way. The sun was low in the sky and the streets were filled with shadows beneath the harsh light that silhouetted the tiled rooflines. From the harbour front they climbed the gentle slope that led into the heart of the old town, nestling by the massive irregular star shape of the citadel. Napoleon knew these streets and alleys intimately, but it seemed to him he was seeing them as a stranger might.

The handcart’s iron-rimmed wheels clattered along the cobbles as they approached the corner of his home. Outside the house, Napoleon gently lifted the latch on the front door, and helped the porter unload the chests and carry them into the hall on the ground floor.Then he paid the man off and quietly closed the door behind him. There was an unfamiliar odour. He smiled as he realised that this was how it had always smelled, but that he had never noticed it before. The sound of voices came from the floor above and he recognised his mother’s, sharp and authoritative. Then there was Joseph’s voice - low enough that his words were indistinct. The other voices were strange to him.

Napoleon took a deep breath, removed his bicorn hat and placed it on the couch by the door. Then he mounted the stairs, treading as softly as he could until he reached the landing on the first floor.The sounds of his family were just the other side of the door that opened on to the large salon in which he had played as a child. Placing a hand on the latch, he lifted it and pushed the door open. Inside, the large windows that ran along one wall were open and the last of the sunlight streamed in, bathing the interior in a warm orange glow. Running down the centre of the room were two large tables, end to end. Around the nearest table sat the family. His mother had her back to the door.To her left sat Joseph, Lucien and a young boy he did not recognise but he knew must be Louis.To his mother’s right sat two girls, either side of an infant boy: his sisters, Pauline and Caroline, and his youngest brother, Jérôme.

The older girl looked up and saw Napoleon in the doorway. Her eyes widened in alarm.

‘Mama!’ She pointed. ‘There’s a soldier!’

‘Pauline!’ His mother lashed out with a wooden spoon and caught the girl a sharp blow on the knuckles. ‘For the last time, none of your stupid games at the table!’

Joseph was looking towards the door now, his spoon poised over a bowl of stew. His look of surprise hardened into an expression of shock.

‘Napoleon?’ he murmured.

Napoleon saw his mother’s back stiffen for an instant, then she quickly turned and looked over her shoulder, wide-eyed. She stared, then there was a clatter as the wooden spoon dropped from the hand that she had clamped over her mouth. Then the chair scraped across the floor and fell back as she rose up and rushed towards him with a rustle of her black skirts. Napoleon’s face split into a wide smile of delight and he opened his arms as she rushed into his embrace. Slight as she was, there was strength in her arms and he felt himself crushed in her embrace. Then she thrust herself back and held him at arm’s length, drinking in the sight of him as her lips trembled.

‘Naboleone . . . What are you doing here?’

‘I applied for leave, Mother.’

‘Leave?’ Her expression became anxious. ‘How long have you got?’

‘A fine welcome that is!’ Napoleon teased her. ‘Hardly here a minute before you ask me when I’m leaving.’

‘Oh! I didn’t mean—’

‘It’s all right, Mother.’ He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. ‘Only joking.’

‘You go away for eight years, and still you haven’t grown up. How long are you staying?’

‘Until April next year.’

Her tension drained away at his reply. ‘Seven months. That’s good.Very good . . . What am I saying?’ She turned round to the others still at the table. ‘This is your brother Naboleone, who Father took to France nearly eight years ago. Come, Naboleone or, as you call yourself these days, Napoleon.’

He smiled. ‘In my heart I will always be Naboleone.’

She led him to the table, picking up her chair. ‘Sit down.’

As he lowered himself into her place, Joseph set his spoon down and grasped Napoleon’s hand in both of his. ‘I can’t believe my eyes. It is you. After so many years. When you left Autun, I didn’t know when I would see you again. I never thought it would be for as long as this. God! It’s good to see you!’

‘And you, Joseph.’ He smiled fondly. ‘You have no idea how much I have missed you.’ He looked round at the other faces watching him intently. ‘Lucien’s almost a man already. Louis was only a baby when I left. Now look at him! Almost as old as I was when I left for France. But you three - Pauline and Caroline, and Jérôme there - you have only existed in letters . . . Have you no kisses for your brother?’

He opened his arms, but the girls blushed and felt too unsure of Napoleon to approach him. With an impatient click of her tongue his mother scurried round the table and pressed them towards their brother.They were still nervous and clung to her as Napoleon reached for their hands. He frowned, hurt and a little angry at their reticence, but it was only natural, he realised. They didn’t know him. He would have to give them time to grow accustomed to him.At the moment his heart filled with an aching sadness at the lost years. It seemed there were some sacrifices for the sake of a career that could never be justified. Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes. Napoleon cuffed them away and suddenly leaned forward to ruffle the girls’ hair, with a forced cheerfulness.

‘Never mind! We’ll soon get to know each other.Then there’s so many tales I can tell you about France!’