The morning broke with Letizia's sharp call, "Up, all of you! The day waits for no one!" Her voice sliced through the predawn quiet, rousing the children from their mats. Joseph stretched calmly, offering a sleepy smile to Lucien, while Napoleone groaned, burying his face in his pillow. "Why so early?" he muttered, his voice muffled. The house sprang to life—Pauline swept the floor with careful sweeps, Elisa hauled a bucket of water, and Carlo, their father, shuffled papers in the study, his presence a gentle contrast to Letizia's command.
At breakfast, a sparse table held chestnuts and stale bread, the family gathering around as Letizia clasped her hands. "Bless this food, Lord, and keep us humble," she intoned, her voice steady. The children echoed her, though Napoleone's mumble was halfhearted, his stomach growling. "Mamma, can't we have more?" he whispered to Joseph, who shook his head. "She says we must make do, Nabulio. You know that."
Napoleone's eyes flicked to Letizia, her profile stern as she oversaw the meal. Her rules—early rising that left him groggy, frugality that gnawed at his hunger, respect for elders that chafed like a tight collar—felt like chains. Yet as she directed the household with unwavering resolve, a grudging respect stirred. "She's tougher than Papa," he thought, recalling how she'd scolded him yesterday after the game. Marcus's voice within him whispered, Strength is forged in discipline, and Napoleone tucked the idea away, unresolved but intrigued.
Later that morning, Letizia assigned chores, her voice firm. "Joseph, tend the garden. Napoleone, fetch water from the well." Joseph nodded and stepped outside, but Napoleone froze, his recent victory fueling his defiance. "Why me again? I did it yesterday!" he protested, crossing his arms. "It's Joseph's turn—he's the favorite anyway!"
Letizia turned, her eyes narrowing. "A man who cannot obey cannot command," she said sharply, stepping closer. Her words hit him like a slap, echoing the leadership he'd claimed the day before. "Go now, or you'll regret it," she added, her tone brooking no argument. Napoleone's face flushed. "That's not fair! I won yesterday—I should rest!" he shouted, stomping his foot.
"Fairness is for the weak," Letizia retorted, her voice cold. "Obey, or stay here all day." The other children watched, wideeyed, as Napoleone glared, his chest heaving. Joseph peeked in from the garden. "Nabulio, just go—it's not worth the fight," he called softly. But Napoleone shook his head. "I'm not weak!" he snapped, yet the fire in Letizia's gaze outmatched his. Muttering, "Stupid water, stupid rules," he snatched the bucket and stormed out.
At the well, the weight of her words sank in as he hauled the heavy bucket. A man who cannot obey cannot command. The phrase looped in his mind, tying to his triumph over Joseph's peace talks. Marcus's influence nudged him: Discipline is power's root. By the time he returned, dripping and sullen, he obeyed, but his thoughts churned with a new respect for her lesson.
That evening, dinner was a humble affair—thin lentil soup, a crust of bread, and a few chestnuts. Napoleone poked at his bowl, his stomach rumbling. "This again? I'm starving!" he complained loudly. "Why can't we have meat like the neighbors? I deserve better!" His voice carried a petulant edge, a echo of his earlier defiance.
Letizia's head snapped up, her expression stern. "Enough, Nabulio. You must learn to live with little. Great men eat little, speak little, endure much. Complaining fills no belly." Her voice was firm, a teacher's tone. Joseph ate quietly, nodding. "She's right, Nabulio. It builds character," he said gently.
"Character?" Napoleone shot back, his temper flaring. "I want food, not lessons!" Letizia leaned forward, her eyes locking with his. "Deserve? You earn what you get through hardship, not demands. Eat, or go hungry." The table fell silent, Pauline whispering to Elisa, while Carlo glanced up briefly before returning to his papers.
Napoleone stared at the soup, his defiance warring with hunger. Slowly, he picked up the spoon, eating in silence. Letizia watched, her expression softening slightly, but she said nothing more. As the meal ended, he sat back, the lesson sinking in. Live with little, endure much, he repeated inwardly, recalling the village boys' hunger after their games. Later, under the fig tree, he reflected on her words, the discipline beginning to feel like a tool, not a burden.
The next afternoon, a study session turned tense. Joseph read aloud from a book, his voice smooth, while Napoleone struggled with a slate, scratching out letters. "You're doing it wrong again," Joseph said kindly, leaning over. "Look, it's like this." Napoleone's face darkened. "I don't need your help!" he barked, shoving the slate aside. "I can do it better!"
The argument escalated, Lucien teasing, "You're too loud, Nabulio!" and Elisa giggling. "Shut up, all of you!" Napoleone shouted, his voice echoing. Letizia stormed in, her presence silencing the room. "What is this noise?" she demanded, her hands on her hips. "Napoleone, you will kneel by the wall until you learn silence."
"No!" he protested, but her glare pinned him. Reluctantly, he knelt, his knees pressing into the hard floor. For hours, he stayed, glaring at her with fiery eyes, refusing to cry. Joseph whispered, "Mamma, he's trying," but Letizia shook her head. "He must learn." The other children tiptoed around, but Napoleone held firm, his stubbornness a shield.
As the punishment ended, Letizia approached. "You have iron in you," she said quietly, "but iron bends without a forge. I won't break you—I'll shape you." Napoleone said nothing, but her words fueled his resolve. She can't conquer me, he thought, the defiance mingling with a new respect.
That night, the house slept, save for the soft creak of floorboards. Letizia slipped into the boys' room, her candle casting a faint glow. Napoleone lay awake, his knees aching. She sat beside him, her voice softening. "You are different, Napoleone," she whispered, brushing a curl from his forehead. "But if you do not master yourself, the world will master you. I push you because I see what you could be."
Napoleone turned his head, too proud to reply. "I don't need your lessons," he muttered finally, his voice low. Letizia smiled faintly. "We'll see," she said, rising. "Sleep now." She left, and he stared at the ceiling, her words burning into him. Master myself, he thought, the idea tying to his village victory, a challenge he'd meet.
In the quiet darkness, Napoleone reflected. Letizia was harder than Carlo, harsher than the village boys, a force he couldn't outmatch. She's the only one I can't conquer, he admitted, half in resentment, half in awe, recalling her unyielding stance after his triumph. Under the fig tree the next day, he sat alone, the morning breeze stirring his thoughts. One day, I will prove to her that I was worth all this trouble, he vowed, his young mind set on a future where her sternness would forge his greatness, a resolve born from their clashing wills.