They would call it INVICTUS.History would remember it as a Painted Miracle.
The Canvas of Victory
May 12, 1429 — Night
The French Camp, Outside Orleans
The army did not stay in the blood-soaked mud of Patay. The village was too small, too poor to hold a legend.
Instead, Napoleon ordered a march back to Orleans. Victories, like justice, must be seen to be believed.
Now, the campfires of the victorious army lit up the night like a reflection of the stars. The air smelled of roasted meat, cheap wine, and the sweat of men who had cheated death.
But something was different.
Napoleon walked through the camp, his face hidden by a hood. Usually, soldiers after a battle spoke of loot, of women, of the weight of gold chains ripped from English necks.
Tonight, they were whispering.
"Did you see her?"
"The arrow went right through."
"She stood up. I swear on my mother's grave, the dead stood up."
Napoleon stopped. He signaled to Lucas, his aide.
"Find out what they are looking at," Napoleon whispered. "Over there. By the supply wagons."
A large group of soldiers was huddled around a barrel, passing something around like a holy relic.
Lucas nodded and disappeared into the shadows. He returned ten minutes later, holding a round, splintered piece of wood.
It was the lid of a wine barrel.
"Sire," Lucas said, his voice strange. "You need to see this."
Napoleon took the lid.
It was crude. Drawn with burnt charcoal from a campfire. But the lines were alive.
It depicted the chaos of yesterday. In the center, rising above a blur of fallen bodies and broken lances, was a figure. The face was faceless—just a few sharp strokes. But the posture was unmistakable.
One hand gripping a flag. The other punching the sky.
Surrounded by the rough sketches of the Blue Royal Guard.
It wasn't a portrait. It was a scream captured in charcoal.
"Who drew this?" Napoleon asked.
"A boy," Lucas pointed. "An archer from Tours. His name is Jean Fouquet."
History would later argue whether this was the same Jean Fouquet who would redefine French painting—or merely the first spark of a talent not yet named.
The Weapon
May 12, 1429 — Late Night
The King's Tent
The young soldier stood trembling before the King. His hands were black with charcoal. He thought he was going to be punished for defacing army property.
"Jean Fouquet," Napoleon said, studying the barrel lid under the candlelight.
"I am sorry, Sire," the boy stammered. "I... I just wanted to remember it."
"Remember it?" Napoleon looked up. "No. You immortalized it."
Napoleon placed the lid on his strategy table, right on top of the map of Paris.
"Lucas," Napoleon said, his voice changing. The warmth was gone, replaced by the cold steel of the Emperor. "This is not art. This is a weapon."
"A weapon, Sire?"
"The English have longbows. We have this." Napoleon tapped the charcoal drawing. "A peasant cannot read a treaty. He cannot read a Bible. But he can read this."
He turned to the trembling boy.
"Put down your bow, Jean. You will never shoot an arrow again. From tonight, you are the Peintre du Roi (King's Painter)."
"Sire?" Fouquet's eyes went wide.
"I want you to copy this," Napoleon ordered. "Simple lines. Woodcuts. Thousands of them."
He paused, his finger tracing the outline of the raised fist on the rough wood. It was the defiance he knew so well. The defiance that had defined his past life, and now defined this new France.
"And give it a name," Napoleon added, his voice firm. "INVICTUS."
"Unconquered, Sire?" Fouquet asked in awe.
"Unconquered," Napoleon confirmed. "Carve that word below her feet. I want that image in every church, every tavern, every market square from here to Reims. Let the English learn Latin."
He looked at Lucas.
"And write a Pastoral Letter. Tell the Bishops what happened. Tell them the arrow pierced her throat (let the rumors exaggerate), and she stood up by the Grace of God."
"Sire," Lucas hesitated. "To claim a miracle without the Church's investigation... The Bishop of Beauvais will call it heresy. The Pope will be furious."
Napoleon walked to the tent flap and looked out at the sleeping army.
"Let them be furious," Napoleon said softly.
(Inner Monologue)
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was painting a target on her back. By elevating her to a Saint before the Church sanctioned it, he was making her an enemy of Rome. If she fell, the Inquisition would burn her.
History would call him cruel. It would call him a user of people.
But he looked at the barrel lid again. At the word INVICTUS.
"Cruelty is necessary," he thought. "To save France, I must make a God. Even if the God must eventually bleed."
"Send the letters, Lucas," Napoleon commanded. "Make her a legend before the sun comes up."
The Ripple
May 15, 1429 — Various Locations
The Montage of Belief
The "Weapon" fired. The image of "INVICTUS" spread like wildfire.
In a Village Church near Blois:
A priest with shaking hands held up a crude woodcut print—a copy of Fouquet's drawing with the Latin title boldly carved at the bottom.
"Look!" the priest cried to the illiterate farmers. "INVICTUS! The English iron broke against the Will of God!"
The farmers fell to their knees. They didn't see a girl. They saw the Archangel Michael in plate armor. The recruitment lines for the Royal Army doubled overnight.
In the Cathedral of Beauvais:
Bishop Pierre Cauchon, the man who served the English, crushed the woodcut in his hand.
"'Unconquered'?" Cauchon hissed to his canons. "She bleeds. Therefore she is mortal. To claim immortality is not sanctity. It is Witchcraft."
He threw the drawing into the fireplace.
"This 'King' Charles is bypassing the Church. He is creating an idol. We must build a fire hot enough to burn it."
In Rome:
A young scribe read the report from France to the Cardinal. "Your Eminence, the French King claims miracles. The people are worshipping this girl. Should we issue a condemnation?"
The Cardinal stood by the window, looking out at the eternal city. He held the report about the cannons of Patay in one hand, and the woodcut of the Saint in the other.
"Condemn a King who has just destroyed the English army?" The Cardinal shook his head slowly. "By force of arms, the balance now favors the King. His cannons have silenced any political argument we might make today."
He walked back to his desk and placed the woodcut face down.
"But theologically... that is a different battlefield." The Cardinal's voice was soft, heavy with centuries of dogma. "We cannot allow a secular King to crown his own Saints. It sets a dangerous precedent."
"So we wait?" the scribe asked.
"We wait," the Cardinal dipped his quill but did not write. "Let him use her to win his war. But remember: The Church has a long memory. If she steps one foot outside the path of dogma... we will be there to correct it."
The Guillotine Shadow
May 16, 1429
Château de Sully-sur-Loire
Georges de La Trémoille sat by the fire. He was the Grand Chamberlain, the man who used to hold the King in the palm of his hand.
He held the woodcut of "INVICTUS" in his hand.
"The English are running," his guest muttered, pouring wine with a trembling hand.
It was Charles de Bourbon, Count of Clermont. The man who had led the French army to disastrous defeat at the Battle of the Herrings a few months ago. He represented everything the new army despised: incompetence and noble arrogance.
"We should be celebrating, Georges," Clermont said nervously. "Our estates are safe."
"Safe?" La Trémoille laughed, a dry, humorless sound. He threw the woodcut into the fire.
"You fool. The English were the only thing keeping us alive."
He stood up, pacing, his heavy frame casting a long, trembling shadow on the wall.
"Think, Clermont. Why did the King tolerate us for so long? Why did he forgive your failure at the Battle of the Herrings? Why did he let me steal from the treasury?"
"Because he was weak," Clermont shrugged. "Because he needed our men."
"Exactly. A weak King needs 'Protectors'. A weak King needs to make deals."
He pointed to the fire, where the image of Joan was turning to ash.
"But look at him now. He has a professional army that answers only to him. He has Jacques Cœur filling his pockets. And now... he has Her."
La Trémoille's voice dropped to a terrified whisper.
"He has a living Saint. The people believe God speaks through her to him. Do you know what happens when a King becomes a God, Clermont?"
Clermont went pale. He finally understood.
"He doesn't need to make deals anymore," Clermont whispered. "He can just... judge."
"He will settle the accounts," La Trémoille said, touching his own neck instinctively. "He knows what we did. He knows about your incompetence. He knows about my embezzlements."
"If he marches to Reims and takes the Crown with that 'Saint' by his side, he will be untouchable. And the first thing a strong King does is clean his house."
"We are the dirt, Clermont," La Trémoille hissed. "We are the dirt he is going to sweep away."
"Then what do we do?"
La Trémoille stared into the flames. The fear in his eyes hardened into a desperate, vicious resolve.
"We cannot attack the King. He is too strong now."
"But the girl..." La Trémoille smiled, but there was no joy in it. "She is the source of his divinity. If we can prove she is not a Saint... if we can prove she is a witch, or a whore, or a liability..."
"Then he becomes a man again," Clermont finished the thought. "And a man needs friends."
"We must let her fly high," La Trémoille said softly. "And when she is closest to the sun... we must make sure she burns."
The Uncontrollable Fire
May 17, 1429
Orleans
The bells of Orleans were ringing.
Napoleon stood on the city walls, watching the procession below. The people were screaming Joan's name. They were waving thousands of copies of "INVICTUS". They were touching the hem of her cloak as if it could cure leprosy.
Lucas stood beside him.
"It worked, Sire," Lucas said, sounding awed. "The whole country is awake. The English are terrified of the 'Witch'. The morale is unbreakable."
Napoleon nodded. But he didn't smile.
He looked at the frenzy below. He saw the adoration that bordered on madness.
He remembered a similar frenzy in another life. In Paris. In 1804. When he took the crown from the Pope's hands.
I have created a monster, Napoleon thought. A beautiful, golden monster.
"Yes, Lucas," Napoleon said quietly. "It worked."
"But remember this: You can start a fire with a single spark. But once it burns..."
He watched Joan riding through the crowd, looking overwhelmed, looking for him for guidance.
"...not even the King can tell the fire where to stop."