Author Disclaimer: The Civilization series is the property of Firaxis. I merely play their wonderful games.
Napoleon found himself wearing out his beloved boots faster than he'd expected. The heels had already been ground down almost a quarter of an inch from his constant pacing, and he paused at increasingly close intervals to inspect the heels for further wear. The wait was killing him, despite his knowledge that the telegraph system was instantaneous and if his troops had any information to relay to him, he'd receive it at a moment's notice. He found himself staring at the door leading to his adviser officers almost constantly, waiting for the telegraph officer on duty to burst in at any moment and deliver either news of triumph or tribulation.
It had been two weeks since the Franco-German Ceasefire had gone into effect. He'd spent most of the first week discussing surrender and vassalage terms with Bismarck in Stuttgart, though an impartial onlooker might've described the proceedings more along the lines of Napoleon making demands that Bismarck unwillingly capitulated to. The German king had made it increasingly clear that while he had no choice in the matter, he certainly was not going to become Napoleon's lapdog. Eventually, the two had settled upon the vassalage of the German Empire to France, in exchange for Napoleon sparing both Berlin and Stuttgart. In a surprising move that seemed out-of-place compared to his usual stubborn hatred of the surrender terms, Bismarck took the initiative and had insisted upon allowing Napoleon access to his military - meager as it was - to assist with defending the Russians. Bismarck claimed it was a show of goodwill from the German people to their betters, but the glint in his eye told Napoleon that he had other plans. He flatly denied the offer.
Following the negotiations, Napoleon and his advisers had made haste to Amiens to coordinate the transportation of much of the French military to the Japanese-Russian border. Though rail lines had been prototyped and the Development Ministry had begun issuing construction orders to workers, almost all of the French transportation network was hopelessly mired in roads. Worse still, while the roads in major cities such as Paris and Amiens were paved and in good condition, the roads linking France and Russia were little more than muddy trails, sometimes with new tree growth blocking key supply routes. Napoleon decided to get a head start on deploying his forces - tired and disgruntled as they were - to the front lines in order to make up for the transportation delays he knew would inevitably occur.
That had all been a week-and-a-half ago. Now, at midnight, with only a few candles illuminating the hall before him, the king stood in waiting. His troops should have arrived in the forts lining the border. Catherine called it her impenetrable virginal wall - and Napoleon could only roll his eyes at such a tasteless joke. The virginal part was not lost on him, however. The forts were fresh and had yet to be properly tested and evaluated. Tokugawa would be giving them a baptism in fire. If the lines fell, Moscow was only around five days march from the border. Russia would be dealt a humiliating, crippling blow.
"Sir," the voice of the midnight telegraph officer awoke Napoleon from his trance. Realizing he'd been staring out the window at an almost-invisible Amiens, Napoleon composed himself and turned toward the man. He handed him a long, folded slip of paper before saluting and departing for his post once more. Napoleon briefly stared at the folded sheet before deciding that he might as well read it. If the news was bad, he reasoned, better he know now and plan ahead than put it off for tomorrow. That was the whole reason he was up, anyways, and hadn't showered and slept. Catherine would be furious if she found out he'd put off basic toiletries in favor of waiting for a slip of paper.
"Napoleon," the note read, "Troops arrived. Holding at border. Will receive further news tomorrow. Go to bed. I know you're still awake. Cathy."
He snorted. Catherine should have known better than to sign her name in such a cavalier way. It was unbefitting of a queen, he decided. Then again, Catherine had never been one for obeying formalities and putting on airs. Folding the paper once more, he slipped it into an inner pocket within his military jacket and left the hallway.
Approaching his bedroom, he rubbed his eyes and mechanically went through the motions: taking off his hat, before carefully setting it unto a bust of Augustus Caesar, slipping out of his military clothes and arranging them in his closet, and running a bath for himself. He figured it would be better to smell clean and look tired, since he knew he wouldn't be getting much sleep that night.
As he lay languishing within the bath, the tension seeping out of his body, he began to think about calming things. He remembered the vacation he'd taken in America the year before, following his victories in Rome and Tenochtitlan. Roosevelt had set him up with a small, discreet bungalow in New York, one of Roosevelt's prized sub-tropical, southern cities. The time in the sun had done him good, and he distinctly remembered the Royal Court complimenting his youthful appearance and bronze tan upon his return to Paris. Those had been the days - no stress, no yelling, just simple relaxation in a hammock, the soothing sounds of the ocean inviting him to sleep forever. He almost considered abdicating the throne and handing it off to one of his relatives, having realized an almost perfect life in the Americas.
Lost in the sands of New York, the French king failed to hear the frantic knocking outside his bedroom door. The yell of one of his aides snapped him out of his daydream, and he quickly drained the bath and dried himself off. Wrapping his wet body within a gold and purple trim bathrobe, he walked barefoot to the door, opening it with an irritated expression. Either his adviser had nothing of major importance to tell him, in which case he had interrupted his bath for no reason, or bad news had come from Moscow. Good news, in Napoleon's opinion, was not news at all.
"My king," the aide bowed as Napoleon unlocked and opened the door, "I bring grave news from the prime minister of America."
Napoleon stood in the doorway, confused, before turning to the side and allowing his aide in, asking, "What could he possibly need? He's got control of an entire continent - no enemies on either side."
"Sir," the aide unfolded a telegraph transcript, "You should probably read it yourself. You know him better than I."
Snatching the transcript in his still-damp hands, the king dismissed his aide before locking the door once more, tossing the paper carelessly onto his bed. If the American wanted his help, he'd need to be polite and wait for him to finish his evening routine. Deciding he wasn't in the mood to start his bath once more, Napoleon changed into his nightclothes, all the while staring at his hat upon the Augustus Caesar bust. The bust itself had somehow become angled to face him, and he couldn't help but feel as though the haughty look chiseled in stone was mocking him.
Finally slipping into bed, Napoleon once more unfolded the paper and began reading.
"Napoleon," the paper said, "Tokugawa's espionage network more effective than predicted. Hid almost seventeen divisions of troops from spies. Also, spies intercepted telegraph message from Justinian intended for Tokugawa. Reproduced message below:
Tokugawa. Been in-touch with Cathy."
Napoleon paused. What had Catherine been doing behind his back?
"She agreed to terms. Stated that Napoleon had sent the bulk of his military to your borders. Cathy's armies will open fire on French troops as soon as your 'invasion' begins. Eliminate them. The combined power of all three of us will topple the arrogant Frenchman's empire. Good luck. Justinian.
Don't come to any conclusions. Still unsure if telegraph is truthful or an intentional lie. Keep an eye on Catherine. My troops deployed on Eastern Japanese Seaboard yesterday. Fighting appears intense. May have to siege capital. Will inform you of any spy updates. Roosevelt."
Napoleon's face went red, and he gritted his teeth. So that had been the Russian minx's power-play. Almost leaping out of bed, he swiped his hat off of the bust, nearly toppling it, and set it upon his wet hair. Not bothering with the rest of his uniform, he donned a pair of furry slippers before storming out of his room, toward his adviser's offices.
Slamming the hallway door open, he stood confused for a moment, staring into the empty hall, before realizing it was a little past midnight and none of his advisers would be awake. In a fit of rage, he grabbed one of the chairs - a period piece beloved by his Minister of Domestic Affairs - and smashed it against a random aide's desk. He grunted as he brought the chair down upon the helpless table, repeating the motion until the chair in his hands broke into pieces. Dropping the remains, he fell upon his knees and punched the wood floor until his knuckles were red with blood and horrible gashes. Never had he been so horribly betrayed, not even when his Minister of Foreign Affairs had leaked his plans of world domination to the Indians, igniting his first major war.
Realizing with disgust what a pathetic, whiny child he was being, Napoleon got up. Careful not to let anymore blood drip onto the floorboards, he made his way back to his room and washed his hands in the porcelain basin. After he was sure his wound were clean, he fetched some linen wrappings inside one of the numerous ivory-handle cabinets that adorned his washroom before carefully bandaging his hands. He'd let his emotions go too far - even farther than his usual fits of rage - and how he realized he was paying the price. Tomorrow, he decided, he would address the situation neutrally, as any other. Rather than confronting Catherine in a rage - which would probably only amuse her - he would meet her deception with his own.
An aide walked up to the American prime minister bearing two more telegraphs from his spies overseas. Roosevelt thanked the boy and sent him off for the evening - it was nearing midnight stateside, and he knew he had to sleep soon. He'd be surprised if Napoleon was still awake at this ungodly hour. Even the French king needed to sleep at some point.
Unfolding the telegraph transcripts, Roosevelt skimmed the cursive text. Apparently everything was quiet - the telegraph messages were short reports about where the spies were and their current status as well as their next moves. Nothing too important, Roosevelt decided, and so he folded the papers back up and slipped them into one of the small drawers flanking his central desk. The desk itself was relatively bare - he'd cleaned out most of his paperwork for the day and was just closing up shop now, ready to have his daily evening respite from the hustle-and-bustle of life as the leader of one of the most powerful nations in the world. Yawning, he sleepily called out to one of his aides, and, dutifully, a strong young man appeared to drag the prime minister to his room.
Once within his bedchambers, the prime minister made use of the wood crutches so thoughtfully provided by Catherine of all people. Thinking back to the telegraph his spies had intercepted earlier, Roosevelt couldn't help but feel as though he'd wronged Napoleon by sending it. Clearly the telegraph had no outside context, so Roosevelt himself couldn't judge whether it was a genuine communication or a message that was meant to be intercepted. Perhaps Justinian was playing him, Napoleon, and Catherine for fools, attempting to sow discord between the trio that had become inseparable allies over the past millennia or so. Part of the problem with being eternally youthful - as all leaders were, though no one understood why - was that you got to know your fellow leaders very well. Too well, Roosevelt thought. At times it became a burden to know that the man you're declaring war on was the same man you shared a bottle of sake with a few centuries ago.
He felt it best not to dwell on the topic for too long, as he knew it would only upset him and result in him having a restless sleep, as there was nothing he could do about it now. Perhaps in the morning he'd be able to sort this business out with both Napoleon and Catherine.
As he slipped into his nightclothes and set his spectacles on the bedside table and lifted himself in. He fell asleep quickly, exhausted from a day spent making speeches and signing off on military orders.
Author Note: If the line breaks made the story easier for you to read, you can thank Chocolate Teapot.