The Road Home
1789 5 6, , .
A date had been set for the war with Austria: September 1789, just four months away. Ordinarily, launching a war in September, smack in the middle of harvest season, would be sheer madness. You'd need that month to dig up the turnips, then October to sow the winter wheat. But France was different. We had a standing army system handed down from my great-great-grandfather Louis XIV's time.
The reason countries without standing armies avoided war during harvest was their mobilization structure. Issue a mobilization order, and men get conscripted—right when they were needed for the fields. Miss the harvest, and whether it was a bumper crop or a lean one, the food rotted, stores ran dry, and war inevitably turned to plunder. Plunder wars forced both sides to go all-in. Normal wars were about territory; plunder wars were about survival. Desperation ramped up the killing, but casualties skyrocketed too—the aggressor desperate to seize sustenance, the defender desperate to live.
The real problem? Even victory in a plunder war didn't break the cycle. Everyone abandoned their farms during the fighting, so hunger returned, demanding more plunder. Chain enough plunder wars together, and the nation optimized for war. Tasting easy fixes through arms too many times, it tried solving everything with soldiers. The easy path, sure—but when neighbors ran dry, collapse followed. You couldn't locust your own flesh; it lacked the nutrition. A war-optimized state squeezing its own people? Nothing there but civil war. The old "take from them, pay them back" mindset was a straight road to ruin.
"Something's lacking."
Lately, a whiff of that mindset had crept into the French military, but it hadn't hit critical levels yet. The Academy's steady stream of inventions and discoveries kept the grumbling in check. Thanks to that, things had stayed quiet since the illegal occupations of Nice and Savoy.
"What might that be, Your Majesty?"
"No, it's not about war preparations. It's that our reason for this war feels insufficient."
That was the rub. France's standing army was overwhelming in force, well-supplied, battle-hardened, led by competent officers and great generals—a structure no one could match in quality. We'd win the war easily, but what would we gain? Setting aside the Venetian throne as personal gain, it was hard to see the upside in a full war against Austria. The imperial title? I'd accepted it more as cover for protecting the Pope than for France. The Louis inside me rejoiced at the crown, but to me, it was just cumbersome. France had been "foreign king, domestic emperor" since the medieval era, over a millennium ago—no real change now. The absolute monarchy I'd built was far more efficient than feudalism back then. The Assembly hadn't been elected yet amid famine and war clouds, but I'd designed it as my own limb anyway.
"Is the return of the Carolingian dynasty such a grand thing?"
Dragging external factions into domestic politics felt like an obstacle in that context.
"Of immense significance, surely."
"Is that so."
"Yes. Not just the French people, but every official here is primed to rejoice at the Carolingian revival."
That much, huh. Maybe it was my modern sensibilities. Another romance I lacked.
"In any case, back to the point. What do we stand to gain from this war?"
"Much, if we seize it. Mostly fiefs, but within Austria itself..."
"Rejected."
Fiefs were off-limits, regardless. Beyond messing up the map, too many European fiefs bred administrative inefficiency and friction—obstacles to colonial expansion. Plus, they served as checks on Europe, potentially blunting future trials. I didn't want that. The harsher the winter, the more pests it killed.
"Your Majesty's plan to absorb Italy via Venice. Nothing beyond that."
"I see..."
Truth was, wars often looked profitable on paper but tallied as net losses when you crunched the numbers. War materials, opportunity costs during fighting, postwar compensation demands if dragged out—building infamy. Civilian industry cratered hardest. Solve it by thrashing the foe just enough for a treaty and reparations... but "just enough" to cover costs invited revenge wars. No one wanted to pay reparations. Better no war at all, unless you went total extermination to erase any thought of payback.
"I must meet Mozart."
Radical republicanism was incompatible with absolutism—we'd have to fight. No profit? We'd fight anyway. That gnawed at me.
*
"Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."
I summoned Mozart to the study.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
He looked flustered by the sudden call. Fair enough—ignored for a decade, then summoned amid war drums? Unsettling, even for a musician safe from the front. Budget cuts for war funding could still sting. And getting axed from France now? Options were grim: revolutionary Austria, Ottoman-bound Papal States, or Prussia's fake-artist horde that barely grasped "art."
"How fares things lately?"
"Thanks to Your Majesty's grace, French music advances daily."
If Mozart said so, it must be true. As Louis XVI, maybe I'd have an ear for it, but I was tone-deaf—couldn't tell masterpieces from noise. So I had no gauge on France's art scene. The tunes felt familiar yet brighter, flashier—his altered fate shifting the vibe. All I knew: his concerts made money. Post-tax reform, wealth gaps yawned; his shows sucked in the rich cash effectively. We split proceeds 50-50, padding his purse, but composers don't spend much. Second tax wave's inheritance tax would skim 80% later—no biggie.
"Good, no issues then. I called you because the court composer has a task."
"Yes. Anything within my power, I shall attempt."
That was music talk. My real reason was different.
"A song cycle, perhaps?"
"A song cycle, yes. One for the army. We need a marching song."
Marching song composition. I'd pen lyrics, but melody? Beyond me. Plus, the intent—ideological injection—needed a famous composer to mask the anonymous lyricist.
"Can you do it?"
"Yes, I... could, but as court composer, I know little of martial music."
A refusal. Fair— Mozart wasn't march material. No hauling orchestras to battlefields.
"True, you're a specialist in court music, not bands. Then, can you recommend a capable musician you know?"
Trumpets, drums—that's it for marches.
"Among the court orchestra trumpeters, there's a fellow named Rouget de Lisle. Ex-soldier; for marches, he'd outshine me."
"Excellent. Commission him then."
Unfamiliar name, yet it rang a vague bell.
*
Mozart had barely left when a staff officer type entered.
"Claude Joseph Rouget de Lisle, here at Your Majesty's summons."
"Hm. Soldierly bearing. Artillery?"
"Engineer lieutenant, sire. Rescued by the maestro during Paris garrison repairs."
Engineer. Explained the weathered look beyond his years.
"You've heard from the court composer: we need a marching song."
He took the paper with my lyrics, glancing at me sidelong.
"A problem?"
"Your Majesty, may I critique these lyrics?"
"Problem? Speak."
Didn't match era tastes? Tailored for French vets...
"It doesn't stir the blood."
"What do you mean?"
"Men crave army glory. The acrid bite of powder, ranks of infantry in lockstep, dashing uniforms, cavalry chasing routed foes, echoes of orders and volley fire. A mighty army blessed by God, or at least Your Majesty's glorious host. But these lyrics? Like a chaplain's ditty sung on the carriage home from war."
Fair. Back in modern times, I'd watched march vids and self-propelled arty barrages plenty. Conscription trauma armored me, but sans that, I'd have enlisted in a heartbeat.
"In sum... it reads like a woman's work."
"A man's."
"Heavens! Then he must be a sodomite. What man pens marches like this?"
Right here.
"Regardless! Compose to these lyrics. Our troops are too bloodthirsty; this'll temper them."
"As you command."
Heart heavy. Era tastes, I suppose. A touch disappointing.