Magnus had believed in long-ago civilizations and forgotten powers.
“This machine had something to do with Og, I was told. The Little Red Man said he’d warned French leaders at critical times before, and that I must remember that word because I would hear it again someday. I remembered the sound of it—Og—because it was so odd, but I hadn’t heard it spoken again until now.” He stared. “By you.”
Despite myself, I felt a shiver. “I don’t know any Little Red Man.”
“But you do find ancient things, and fate keeps bringing us together. You’re an agent of destiny, Ethan Gage, which is why I’ve remained intrigued by you. I’ve told no one of Og, and very few of the Little Red Man, and yet you bear that word. You, the wayward American.”
“It was simply written down. I’d no time to make sense of it.”
“Sense! Sometimes I think I’m as lunatic as my brothers.” Napoleon’s odd family was, of course, the source of endless gossip in Paris. The more he tried to elevate his relatives to positions of responsibility, the sharper the public witticisms in cataloging their faults.
“My elder brother Joseph only wants to be rich, and he’s loyal enough,” Bonaparte confided. “But Lucien is venal and jealous, and Jerome is reportedly smitten by some ship-owner’s daughter in Baltimore. Baltimore!” He said it as if it were a barbarian fiefdom. “I forced Louis to marry Josephine’s daughter, Hortense, this last January, but Louis doesn’t really like women and Hortense loves one of my aides. She spent the night before her wedding weeping.”
Why he confessed all this to me I don’t know, but men sometimes tell me things because they figure me inconsequential. Of course the actual Paris gossip was more malicious than that. Napoleon’s brother Lucien had started a rumor that Napoleon forced the marriage of Hortense and Louis because Napoleon, her stepfather, had impregnated her himself in his desperation to father an heir. Hortense’s marriage, so the gossip went, would legitimize a potential successor. Certainly Hortense was heavy with child, but who made it, and when, was open to speculation. I was wise enough not to ask.
“You’re not a lunatic,” I said sympathetically, to ingratiate myself. I can be a shameless courtier. “You just bear the weight of rule.”
“Yes, yes. Ah, Gage. You cannot imagine how carefree you are, floating free of responsibility!”
“But I’m trying to influence the future of Louisiana.”
“Forget Louisiana. Nothing is going to happen with Louisiana until the situation in Haiti is resolved. The blacks fight on and on.” He scowled. “And now you bring back memory of the gnome! He came into my tent past all my guards. His cloak dragged on the sand, making a track like a snake’s.” His voice was hollow, his eyes distant.
“But we don’t know where Og was.”
“Yes we do. Og is a word scholars associate with Atlantis.”
“Atlantis?” Hadn’t the gold foil borne that word as well? “And where is that, exactly?” I’d heard of it, of course—Magnus Bloodhammer had talked of it in America, savants had debated its geography, and we’d even speculated it was the source of mysterious copper mines in the wilderness—but I wasn’t sure of the details.
“Atlantis is Plato’s story—a fabulous kingdom named for Atlas that was destroyed in some upheaval. Legend has that it was advanced and sought to assert its influence over the entire world. The common belief is that it was distant, like Og, perhaps. Beyond Gibraltar, what the Greeks called the Pillars of Hercules.”
“So what has Og to do with Thira?”
“Perhaps because they are not far apart after all. My geographers tell me there’s a place on the coast of Greece also referred to as the Pillars of Hercules. In Egypt, my savants mentioned Thira as the source of a cataclysm great enough to have spawned the Atlantis story. What if that island was the fabled kingdom? Or what if its destruction sank an Atlantis nearby?”
Sank Og? Which perhaps came from a language that might have been used by half-mythical beings, I thought, remembering my earlier adventures. Of godlike creatures named Thoth or Thor, whose footsteps I’d followed. Again there was this speculation about our mysterious forebears, remembered now as gods or legends. Where had we, or our civilization, really come from?
“It is simply myth,” Napoleon continued. “Or is it? What if this Og/Atlantis really existed, and left something behind that evil seeks? In recent decades there has been frantic research into the legends of the ancients, driven by the popularity of Freemasonry and new archaeological discoveries. Some artifacts have even been found.” He meant the Book of Thoth I’d pilfered, I was sure. “So what else is out there? Why is this Egyptian Rite so persistent in its search? I believe nothing, and yet I can’t afford not to believe. These are things that might decide battles, dynasties, or wars. And so, once again I am face-to-face with you.”
I swallowed, remembering Thor’s hammer: a myth that had almost fried me alive. “You want me to determine the truth of these rumors?”
“There are reports speculating that there are secrets to be found on Thira, an island of no political significance.”
“My colleagues think it has geologic significance.”
“Which is why you’re here instead of in jail. Come, let’s confer with the others—but not a word about my Red Man. If you speak of this day, I’ll have you shot.”
“Secrets are my specialty.”
He glanced skeptically, but what choice did he have? We were two rascals in expedient partnership. We walked back to rejoin the group, Napoleon’s hands clasped behind his back as if to control his own intensity. My three scientific colleagues were regarding me with new respect after my quiet tête-à-tête with the first consul.
“We were discussing Plato’s fiction of Atlantis,” Bonaparte explained to the others.
“Except some scholars believe it might have been real,” Fouché amended. He had the sleepy watchfulness of a cat, his mind calculating truths and evasions like a warehouse full of ledger clerks. “And that it might have left something behind.”
“Which, however unlikely, you are to investigate,” Napoleon now told us briskly, rubbing his hands together as if to shake a chill. “The rumor is that this object may have been left on this island. Yet if I send a military expedition to Thira, it will set off a war with the Ottomans I don’t need. But a party of savants? Who cares what scientists do? With luck you can slip in and out without being seen. If not, you’re simply on a mission to explore an old volcano. They’ll think you’re harmless eccentrics.”
“What object?” Cuvier asked.
“This will interest Fulton,” Fouché said. “The rumor is that a terrible weapon from ancient times may still exist, or at least the knowledge of how to build it. The nature of this weapon isn’t clear, but speculation is that the nation who gets it first will control the Mediterranean, and perhaps the world.”
“You mean it’s some kind of ancient war machine?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to see that.” Fulton was as drawn to machines as I am to women.
“When we learned the Egyptian Rite was seeking a meeting with Ethan Gage, we knew we had to act. It’s imperative that we learn the truth of these rumors before something monstrous falls into the wrong hands.”
“What, English hands?” Smith challenged.
“I’m speaking of this cult, which seems to have an agenda counter to all civilized nations. While we’d have preferred not to include you, Monsieur Smith, this is not a French-English rivalry—it is union in a greater cause. Besides, Gage gave us no choice after his expedition dragging you to the wicked Palais. Now, I’m afraid, you must briefly cooperate with the French government in this hunt for knowledge. We are at peace, after all.”
“But my business is in Britain!”
“My information is that you’re quite unemployed.”
“Not to the point of wanting to go to Greece!”
“We are your new employer.”
“And if I refuse?”
�
��Then we’ll confine you as a spy until this matter is sorted out. Cooperate, and you may advance your geologic career. We know your work has been ignored by the Royal Society.”
“Wait just a minute,” Fulton said. “I may be interested in ancient machinery, but I’ve no interest in this Thira, or Og, either!”
“You do if you want French interest in your peculiar idea for a steamboat,” Napoleon said. “You’ve exhausted our patience and budget with your ridiculous Nautilus, but if you help us with this, we’ll give your new contraption a fair look.”
“Oh.”
“And you, Cuvier, will accompany these men as a French patriot to provide this quartet with Gallic logic and purpose. You will be the expedition’s leader and purser. Unless you prefer disgrace, dismissal from the Institute, and loss of the education ministry?”
“I wish only to reclaim my honor, First Consul. We savants have a reputation, even if Gage does not. I apologize for associating with riffraff, but perhaps good can come of it.”
“And me?” I asked, not happy that no one was objecting to the “riffraff” description.
“According to Madame Marguerite, who is secretly in our employ, this Osiris fellow you ran over promised to take you to your lost love Astiza,” Fouché said. “He wanted to take you to Thira, too. The woman must be there, or at least you might find a clue to her whereabouts. Do this errand for France and we’ll send you on to the Egyptian lady. If not, you can go back to the United States to explain that your efforts to persuade us about Louisiana came to a complete failure and that our Caribbean army will soon occupy New Orleans. You will be banned from France, blamed for abject diplomatic failure in America, and forced to find a real job.”
I swallowed. The prospect of actual work does daunt me. “So all we have to do is go to Thira, talk to this Greek fellow, and poke about for an ancient weapon?”
“Find an ancient weapon. Or at least bring back word of it before Ottoman soldiers, foreign spies, pirates, rebels, bandits, or the Egyptian Rite get to it first. Consider it a holiday from normal duties, gentlemen. A boy’s adventure.”
Sleepless, gritty, sore, and frightened, we numbly assented. What choice did we have?
“But how are we to find this weapon?” Cuvier asked.
Fouché took out a small velvet bag. “Before our troops were forced out of the Ionian Islands, one of our officers made purchase of a relic, a ring, from a distressed noblewoman. She said it was forged late in the fifteenth century. It was oddly fortuitous; the man said the duchess was quite beautiful and quite enigmatic. Some contend the ring was made by Templars themselves. When my agents heard about it, I decided to acquire it. I think you’ll see why.”
The ring had a flattened section like a miniature seal, and we saw immediately that it bore the word “Thira.” In the background was a domed building with part of the dome missing, as if someone had taken a bite, like a crescent moon. In the foreground was what looked like a stone sarcophagus meant to bury the dead, with its lid open. A man in robes and a medieval cap appeared to be climbing into the coffin, as if it were a bath. Or perhaps he was climbing out.
“What does it mean?”
“No one knows,” the policeman said, “but it obviously refers to the island. Why would Templars forge this of such an obscure place? Thira is little more than a cinder. This Greek patriot you will meet may find this useful in helping you.”
“Perhaps that’s where the weapon is,” I said, studying the piece. “He’s climbing in to get it.” Compared with the medallion I’d carried in Egypt, this one seemed plain enough.
“Then you’re to do the same. Look at its reverse.”
I turned the ring to inspect the flattened part that would be against the skin. There was another dome, this one quite normal, and inside it the letter “A.”
“What does that mean?”
“We have no idea. Deciphering this object will keep you occupied on your trip to Thira. The essence, gentlemen, is speed. Go swiftly, go silently, and go ahead of any pursuit.”
“Pursuit?” I always hate that.
Cuvier rubbed his weary face. “At least we can study the volcano. Maybe we will be lucky enough to have it erupt.”
“Wouldn’t that be a treat,” I said drily.
“Good!” Napoleon said. “Now—who wants a shot at my swans?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Napoleon promised we could accomplish our mission in a month or two. And indeed, with Europe in peace and the roads mostly dry in high summer, we made our way overland from Paris to Venice in a mere two weeks, traveling south through France and then east across the new Cisalpine Republic that Napoleon had created after his victory at Marengo. I saw no evidence we were being followed. Of course our enemies, if they hadn’t given up, might guess exactly where we were going, given that Osiris, Marguerite, and Fouché all seemed more aware of what was going on than we were. Our quest was probably about as secret as a failure of contraception in the ninth month. On the other hand, perhaps we’d discouraged the Egyptian Rite or Fouché had delayed them, and the entire trip would be a holiday lark.
While my companions were less than happy at being drafted and blamed me for Bonaparte’s coercion, they were also excited about traveling at French government expense. Cuvier had been entrusted with our allowance, though like all pursers he was hard to persuade to spring for the nobler vintage of wine or choicer haunch of meat. “I have to account for your consumption at the end of all this,” he’d grumble, “and I’m damned if I know how to explain to the ministry why this wheel of cheese was necessary over that one—which is cheaper and a hundred grams heavier, as well.”
“I thought you French put food above art, or even love,” Smith said.
“But when it comes to expenditures, our accountants have the taste of the English.”
I didn’t complain. I was aware that I was riding in a coach, with no assignment but to get somewhere, when so many people were not. We’d pass long rows of peasants scything at dusk, or stable boys mucking out horse stalls with sunburned shoulders, or a maid parting a sea of chickens that closed up behind her as she left a trail of scattered grain. I thought how different, how safe and how dull, to be tied to one place and have one’s days dictated by the turn of the seasons. I’d walk to stretch in the evenings, eating a piece of fruit, and if I came upon a boy who seemed smart or a mademoiselle who was pretty, I might show them my longrifle and even help by shooting a crow out of a tree. They treated such a diversion like magic, and me like an exotic visitor from another world.
The savants were apprehensive but excited. They’d see a geologically dramatic island at the edge of the Ottoman Empire, dabble in political intrigue, and maybe make an archaeological discovery or two. Certainly our mission was more thrilling than academic meetings. The truth was that I still had some reputation as a hero, and the scholars hoped a little of my dash might rub off. I couldn’t blame them.
We settled into roles: I the not-entirely-trusted-yet-redoubtable guide, Cuvier our paymaster and skeptical supervisor, Smith the make-the-best-of-it dogged Englishman always ready to shoulder more than his share of luggage or responsibility, and Fulton our tinkerer, who proved fascinated by every waterwheel and canal lock. The inventor helped pass the time by sketching out schemes to improve the suspension of our coach, all of which the driver dismissed as impractical or too expensive.
We also discussed, from boredom, the need to rewrite the history of the world.
“What we know is that rocks have been laid down and worn away over eons,” Smith said. “But how? By catastrophe, like a volcano or great flood, or the patient erosion of wind and rain? And why all that fuss at all, before we humans even appeared in Creation? What was God’s point?” He picked up rocks at every way station, marked their type on his map of France—the stones all looked the same to me, but he told them apart like a drover picks out his cattle—and then tossed them out the coach window.
“We also know that there were many creatures a
live on earth that no longer exist,” Cuvier said, “many of them gigantic. Did Creation start with more variety and greater grandeur that has since been thinned and shrunken by time? That seems a peculiar kind of progress. Are we the pinnacle of Creation, or its shrunken fruit? Or have animals actually changed from one kind into another, as suggested by Saint-Hilaire? I find his proposal ridiculous for any number of reasons, not the least of which is that we have no idea how such a mutation could occur.”
“He told me that odd idea in Egypt,” I put in, cradling my longrifle between my legs. It wasn’t just nervous habit; I’d been robbed on the stage before. “More interesting to me is the question of how civilization got started, and whether marvelous things were once known and then forgotten after the fall of the Roman Empire. Some of my acquaintances have suggested that myths of the ancient gods actually refer to early beings who somehow taught mankind how to grow, build and write, and by doing so lifted us out of the mud. The Egyptian Rite thinks the knowledge of such ancestors, if relearned, could provide terrible power. I’ve seen some things to make me suspect they might be right.”
“What things?” Cuvier asked. He’d brought a red-leather notebook and pen to record our discoveries, a tin officer’s field kit with scissors, comb, and toothbrush, and a combination clock and compass in a copper case. He’d write down our remarks and mark our direction with every entry, as if no one had ever mapped the highway before.
“A book that caused nothing but trouble. And a tool, a hammer, that was even worse.”
“And now we’re off to find an ancient weapon,” said Fulton, “with Bonaparte, Fouché, and those lunatics in Madame Marguerite’s bordello curious about it, too. Why Napoleon is so anxious about forgotten weapons, when he won’t give a proper hearing to my modern ones, is beyond me.” He was amusing himself by taking apart his own pocket watch for the pleasure of putting it back together, but kept losing sprockets and springs when the coach went over bumps, making us have to look for them on the vehicle’s dusty floor. Cuvier took care to keep his own compass-clock out of the inventor’s reach.
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