The map of the Mediterranean covered the entire table in the War Room.
I stood over it, a glass of sherry in one hand and a wooden marker in the other.
"Here," I said, placing the marker on the port of Genoa. "And here." I placed another on Livorno. "And Naples."
William Pitt frowned. "These are neutral ports, Alex. We can't blockade them. It would be an act of war against half of Europe."
"I don't want to blockade them with ships," I said. "I want to blockade them with cash."
I took a sip of sherry. It was dry, sharp.
"Napoleon has looted the Vatican," I continued. "He has five million francs in gold bullion sitting in his wagons. He thinks his supply problem is solved. He thinks he can just walk into the market and buy bread."
"Can't he?" Pitt asked. "Gold is universal."
"Gold is useless if the shelves are empty."
I tapped the marker on Genoa.
"Send your agents to every grain merchant in Italy. Offer them twenty percent above market price for their entire stock. Future harvest included."
Pitt's eyes widened. "Buy... everything?"
"Everything," I said. "Wheat. Oats. Barley. Even the rotten stuff."
"That will cost millions," Pitt protested. "The Exchequer will scream."
"It's cheaper than a war," I countered. "A cannonball costs five pounds and might miss. A contract for wheat hits the target every time."
I looked at the map. I visualized the French army. Two hundred thousand men. Fifty thousand horses. They were a biological machine. And machines need fuel.
"Napoleon is a tactical genius," I said. "But he forgets that an army marches on its stomach. I'm going to cut the stomach out."
Pitt looked at the map, then at me. A slow smile spread across his face.
"The Invisible Blockade," he murmured.
"Precisely," I said. "Let him eat his gold."
The Port of Genoa, Italy
Quartermaster Sergeant Dubois wiped the sweat from his forehead.
Behind him, a heavy wagon guarded by four French grenadiers sat in the dusty piazza. The wagon was loaded with gold candlesticks, chalices, and melted-down crucifixes. Loot from the churches of Milan.
Dubois walked up to the largest grain warehouse in the harbor.
The merchant, a fat Italian named Moretti, sat outside smoking a pipe.
"We need provisions," Dubois barked. "Five thousand sacks of wheat. Three thousand of oats. We are paying in gold."
He gestured to the wagon. The grenadiers pulled back the tarp, revealing the glitter of bullion.
Dubois smiled. In war, gold usually opened every door.
Moretti didn't move. He didn't even look at the gold.
"No," the Italian said, puffing on his pipe.
Dubois blinked. "No? Did you hear me, fat man? Gold. Real gold. Not paper."
"I heard you," Moretti shrugged. "But I have no grain."
"The warehouse is full!" Dubois pointed to the building. "I can smell it!"
"Sold," Moretti said. "Yesterday."
Dubois felt a cold knot in his stomach. "To whom? The Austrians?"
"No. To an Englishman. A Mr. Miller."
The name hit Dubois like a physical blow.
"Miller?"
"Paid in advance," Moretti said, tapping a piece of paper on his lap. "Bank of England draft. Plus a twenty percent bonus for immediate delivery."
Dubois stared at the warehouse. Tons of food. Right there. Behind a thin wooden door.
"I will seize it!" Dubois shouted, drawing his saber. "In the name of the French Republic!"
Moretti smiled. It was a nasty smile.
He whistled.
From the shadows of the warehouse, fifty men stepped out. They weren't soldiers. They were dockworkers. Tough, scarred men holding iron bars and hooks.
And behind them, in the harbor, a British frigate turned its guns toward the quay.
"Mr. Miller also paid for security," Moretti said. "He was very specific. He said, 'The French will try to steal it. Don't let them.'"
Dubois looked at his four grenadiers. Then at the fifty dockworkers. Then at the warship.
He looked at his wagon of useless gold.
He sheathed his sword.
"This isn't over," Dubois spat.
"For you, it is," Moretti replied. "Go eat your candlesticks."
French Camp, Outside Mantua
The rain had turned the camp into a swamp.
Private Jean-Luc sat on a log, staring into his tin cup.
Inside floated a piece of leather. It was a strap cut from his spare boot. The water was brown and tasted of mud.
"Soup again?" Jean-Luc muttered.
Next to him, Corporal Pierre was gnawing on a horse bone. The horse had died of starvation three days ago. There was no meat left on the bone, just gristle.
"Shut up and eat," Pierre grunted.
"I can't," Jean-Luc threw the cup into the mud. "I joined the army to fight for Liberty! Not to eat shoes!"
"We have gold," Pierre said, pointing to the command tent on the hill. "The General has wagons of it."
"Then why aren't we eating?"
"Because there's no food to buy," Pierre said quietly. "Every village we march to is empty. Every barn is burned or bought out. It's like a ghost is moving ahead of us, clearing the table before we sit down."
A shout erupted from the nearby fire.
"Mutiny!"
A sergeant had slapped a soldier. The soldier punched back. Suddenly, fifty men were brawling in the mud. They weren't fighting over ideology. They were fighting over a dead rat one of them had found.
Jean-Luc watched them. He felt a hollow ache in his belly that was sharper than any bayonet.
"If this lasts another week," he whispered, "I'm deserting."
"You'll be shot," Pierre warned.
"Better shot than starved."
The Command Tent
Napoleon Bonaparte swept the chess pieces off the board.
They clattered onto the floor—kings, queens, pawns—all lying in a heap.
"He's mocking me!" Napoleon shouted.
He paced the tent like a caged tiger. His uniform was immaculate, but his face was gaunt. He hadn't eaten a full meal in two days, sharing his rations with the men to keep morale up.
But morale was dead.
General Berthier stood by the entrance, holding a report.
"The foragers returned from Verona, sir," Berthier said softly.
"And?"
"Empty. A British agent bought the entire harvest last week. They burned what they couldn't ship."
Napoleon slammed his fist into the tent pole. The canvas shook.
"He's not fighting a war!" Napoleon hissed. "He's fighting an audit! He's treating my army like a redundant department!"
He walked to the map table. He looked at his beautiful positions. He had the Austrians trapped. He had the high ground. He had the tactical advantage.
But his men were too weak to lift their muskets.
"It's the Invisible Blockade," Napoleon muttered. "He's walled us in with money."
"Sir," Berthier hesitated. "A messenger arrived under a flag of truce. From the British lines."
"A diplomat?"
"No. A courier."
Berthier handed over a sealed envelope.
Napoleon ripped it open.
There was no official header. No diplomatic crest. Just handwriting he recognized.
To the Minister of War:
I hear your horses are looking thin. I have a surplus of high-quality oats sitting in a warehouse in Malta. I would be willing to sell them at a reasonable price.
Terms of negotiation: Unconditional Surrender.
— A.M.
Napoleon stared at the letter.
He laughed. A bitter, jagged sound.
"He's offering to sell me horse feed," Napoleon said, shaking his head in disbelief. "He's taunting me with oats."
"What is the response, General?"
Napoleon looked at the letter. He wanted to burn it. He wanted to march on London and burn the Bank of England.
But he looked outside the tent flap. He saw his men fighting over a rat. He saw the horses chewing on the bark of trees.
He was a pragmatist.
He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.
"No response," Napoleon said. "Not yet."
He looked at the pile of chess pieces on the floor.
"The old man has checkmated us," he whispered. "And he didn't even move a pawn."
He turned to Berthier.
"Order the men to butcher the artillery horses. We eat meat tonight."
"But sir... without horses, we can't move the cannons."
"We aren't going anywhere, Berthier," Napoleon said grimly. "We are under siege. And the walls are made of gold."