Napoleon's Pyramids

by William Dietrich

  Now the captain nodded eagerly to cement Silano’s interest. ‘The jailer told me the arms on the end could point the way to great power! A man of learning such as you, Count, might make sense of it.’

  ‘Or pay for a piece of nonsense. Let me see it.’

  The captain lifted it off his neck. ‘Look how odd it is.’

  Silano took the medallion, exhibiting the long, strong fingers of a fencer, and turned it to examine both sides. The disc was a bit larger than a communion wafer. ‘Not pretty enough for Cleopatra.’ When he held it to a candle, light shone through its holes. An incised groove extended across its circle. ‘How do you know it’s from Egypt? It looks as though it could be from anywhere: Assyrian, Aztec, Chinese, even Italian.’

  ‘No, no, it’s thousands of years old! A gypsy king told me to look for it in San Leo, where Cagliostro had died. Though some say he still lives, as a guru in India.’

  ‘A gypsy king. Cleopatra.’ Silano slowly handed it back. ‘Monsieur, you should be a playwright. I will trade you two hundred silver francs for it.’

  ‘Two hundred!’

  The nobleman shrugged, his eye still on the piece.

  I was intrigued by Silano’s interest. ‘You said you were going to sell it to me.’

  The captain nodded, now hopeful that two of us had been baited. ‘Indeed! It is from the pharaoh who tormented Moses, perhaps!’

  ‘So I will give you three hundred.’

  ‘And I will trade you five,’ Silano said.

  We all want what the other wants. ‘I will trade you seven hundred and fifty,’ I responded.

  The captain was looking from one to the other of us.

  ‘Seven-fifty and this assignat note for one thousand livres,’ I amended.

  ‘Which means seven-fifty and something so worthlessly inflated that he might as well use it on his ass,’ Silano countered. ‘I’ll trade you the full thousand, captain.’

  His price had been reached so quickly that the soldier looked doubtful. Like me, he was wondering at the count’s interest. This was far more than the value of the raw gold. He seemed tempted to slip it back inside his shirt.

  ‘You’ve already offered it to me for a thousand,’ I said. ‘As a man of honour, consummate the exchange or leave the game. I’ll pay the full sum and win it back from you within the hour.’

  Now I’d challenged him. ‘Done,’ he said, a soldier in defence of his standard. ‘Bet this hand and the next few and I’ll win the medallion back from you.’

  Silano sighed hopelessly at this affaire d’honneur. ‘At least deal me some cards.’ I was surprised he’d given up so easily. Perhaps he only wanted to help the captain by bidding me up and reducing my pile. Or he believed he could win it at table.

  If so, he was disappointed. I couldn’t lose. The soldier drew into an eleven, and then lost three more hands as he bet against the odds, too lazy to track how many face cards had been dealt. ‘Damnation,’ he finally muttered. ‘You have the devil’s luck. I’m so broke I’ll have to go back on campaign.’

  ‘It will save you the trouble of thinking.’ I slipped the medallion around my own neck as the soldier scowled, then stood to get a glass and display my prize to the ladies, like an exhibit at a rural fair. When I nuzzled a few the hardware got in the way, so I hid it inside my shirt.

  Silano approached.

  ‘You’re Franklin’s man, are you not?’

  ‘I had the honour of serving that statesman.’

  ‘Then perhaps you’ll appreciate my intellectual interest. I’m a collector of antiquities. I’ll still buy that neckpiece from you.’

  Alas, a courtesan with the fetching name of Minette, or Pussycat, had already whispered about the handsomeness of my trinket. ‘I respect your offer, monsieur, but I intend to discuss ancient history in the chambers of a lady.’ Minette had already gone ahead to warm her apartment.

  ‘An understandable enquiry. Yet may I suggest you need a true expert? That curiosity had an interesting shape, with intriguing markings. Men who have studied the ancient arts …’

  ‘Can appreciate how dearly I hold my new acquisition.’

  He leant closer. ‘Monsieur, I must insist. I’ll pay double.’

  I didn’t like his persistence. His air of superiority rankled my American sensibilities. Besides, if Silano wanted it that badly, then maybe it was worth even more. ‘And may I insist that you accept me as the fair winner, and suggest that my assistant, who also has an interesting shape, supplies precisely the kind of expertise I require?’ Before he could reply, I bowed and moved away.

  The captain, now drunk, accosted me. ‘It isn’t wise to turn Silano down.’

  ‘I thought you told us it had great value, according to your gypsy king and papal jailer?’

  The officer smiled maliciously. ‘They also told me the medallion was cursed.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  It was a pathetic attempt at verbal revenge. I bowed to Madame and made my leave, coming outside to a night made dimmer by the era’s new industrial fogs. To the west was a red glow from the rapidly expanding mills of the Paris suburbs, harbinger of the more mechanical age at hand. A lantern bearer was near the door and hoping for hire, and I congratulated myself on my continued luck. His features were obscured by a hooded cape but were darker than a European’s, I noticed; Moroccan, I guessed, seeking the type of menial employment such an immigrant might find. He bowed slightly, his accent Arabic. ‘You have the look of a fortunate man, monsieur.’

  ‘I’m about to get even more fortunate. I would like you to guide me to my own apartment, and then to a lady’s address.’

  ‘Two francs?’

  ‘Three, if you keep me out of the puddles.’ How wonderful to be a winner.

  The light was necessary since revolution had produced fervour for everything except street cleaning and cobblestone repair. Drains were clogged, street lanterns half-lit, and potholes steadily enlarging. It didn’t help that the new government had renamed more than a thousand streets after revolutionary heroes and everyone was continually lost. So my guide led the way, the lantern hung from a pole held by two hands. The staff was intricately carved, I noticed, its sides scaled for a better grip and the lantern suspended from a knob in the shape of a serpent’s head. The reptile’s mouth held the lantern’s bail. A piece of artistry, I guessed, from the bearer’s native country.

  I visited my own apartment first, to secrete most of what I’d won. I knew better than to take all my winnings to the chamber of a trollop, and given everyone’s interest I decided it best to hide the medallion as well. I took some minutes to decide where to conceal it while the lantern bearer waited outside. Then we went on to Minette’s, through the dark streets of Paris.

  The city, glorious though it remained in size and splendour, was, like women of a certain age, best not examined too closely. Grand old houses were boarded up. The Tuileries Palace was gated and empty, its dark windows like sightless sockets. Monasteries were in ruins, churches locked, and no one seemed to have applied a coat of paint since the storming of the Bastille. Except for filling the pockets of generals and politicians, the Revolution had been an economic disaster, as near as I could see. Few Frenchmen dared complain too boldly, because governments have a way of defending their mistakes. Bonaparte himself, then a little-known artillery officer, had spattered grapeshot on the last reactionary uprising, earning him promotion.

  We passed the site of the Bastille, now dismantled. Since the prison’s liberation, twenty-five thousand people had been executed in the Terror, ten times that had fled, and fifty-seven new prisons had been built to take its place. Without any sense of irony, the former site was nonetheless marked with a ‘fountain of regeneration’: an enthroned Isis who, when the contraption worked, streamed water from her breasts. In the distance I could see the spires of Notre Dame, renamed the Temple of Reason and reputedly built on the site of a Roman temple dedicated to the same Egyptian goddess. Should I have had a premonition? Alas, we seldom notice
what we’re meant to see. When I paid off the lantern bearer I took little note that he lingered a moment too long after I stepped inside.

  I climbed the creaking, urine-scented wooden stairway to Minette’s abode. Her apartment was on the unfashionable third floor, right below the attic garrets occupied by servant girls and artists. The altitude gave me a clue to the middling success of her trade, no doubt hurt by the revolutionary economy almost as much as wig makers and gilt painters. Minette had lit a single candle, its light reflected by the copper bowl she’d used to wash her thighs, and was dressed in a simple white shift, its laces untied at the top to invite further exploration. She came to me with a kiss, her breath smelling of wine and liquorice.

  ‘Have you brought my little present?’

  I pulled her tighter to my trousers. ‘You should be able to feel it.’

  ‘No.’ She pouted and put her hand on my chest. ‘Here, by your heart.’ She traced where the medallion should have lain against my skin, its disc, its dangling arms, all on a golden chain. ‘I wanted to wear it for you.’

  ‘And have us risk a stabbing?’ I kissed her again. ‘Besides, it’s not safe to carry such prizes around in the dark.’

  Her hands were exploring my torso, to make sure. ‘I’d hoped for more courage.’

  ‘We’ll gamble for it. If you win, I’ll bring it next time.’

  ‘Gamble how?’ She cooed, in a professionally practiced way.

  ‘The loser will be the one who gains the summit first.’

  She let her hair drift along my neck. ‘And the weapons?’

  ‘Any and all that you can imagine.’ I bent her back a little, tripping her on the leg I had wrapped against her ankles, and laid her on the bed. ‘En garde.’

  I won our little contest, and at her insistence for a rematch, won a second and then a third, making her squeal. At least I think I won; with women you can never truly tell. It was enough to keep her sleeping when I rose before dawn and left a silver coin on my pillow. I put a log on the fireplace to help warm the room for her rising.

  With the sky greying and the lantern bearers gone, common Paris was getting out of bed. Garbage carts trundled through the streets. Plankmen charged fees for temporary bridges laid over stagnant street water. Watermen carried pails to the finer houses. My own neighbourhood of St Antoine was neither fine nor disreputable, but rather a working-class place of artisans, cabinetmakers, hatters, and locksmiths. Rent was kept down by a confusion of smells from the breweries and dye works. Enfolding all was the enduring Parisian odour of smoke, bread, and manure.

  Feeling quite satisfied with my evening, I mounted the dark stairs intending to sleep until noon. So when I unlocked my door and pushed inside my dim quarters, I decided to feel my way to my mattress rather than bother with shutter or candle. I wondered idly if I could pawn the medallion – given Silano’s interest – for enough to afford better habitation.

  Then I sensed a presence. I turned to confront a shadow among the shadows.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  There was a rush of wind and I instinctively twisted sideways, feeling something whistle by my ear and collide with my shoulder. It was blunt, but no less painful for that. I buckled to my knees. ‘What the devil?’ The club had made my arm go numb.

  Then someone butted me and I fell sideways, clumsy from agony. I was not prepared for this! I kicked out in desperation, connecting with an ankle and drawing a yowl that gave some satisfaction. Then I skidded on my side, grabbing blindly. My hand fastened around a calf and I pulled. The intruder fell on the floor with me.

  ‘Merde,’ he growled.

  A fist hit my face as I grappled with my assailant, trying to get my own scabbard clear of my legs so I could draw my sword. I was awaiting a thrust from my opponent, but none came. Instead, a hand groped for my throat.

  ‘Does he have it?’ another voice asked.

  How many were there?

  Now I had an arm and a collar and managed to land a blow on an ear. My opponent swore again. I yanked and his head bounced off the floor. My thrashing legs flipped a chair over with a bang.

  ‘Monsieur Gage!’ a cry came from down below. ‘What are you doing to my house?’ It was my landlady, Madame Durrell.

  ‘Help me!’ I cried, or rather gasped, given the pain. I rolled aside, got my scabbard out from under me, and started to draw my rapier. ‘Thieves!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, will you help?’ my assailant said to his companion.

  ‘I’m trying to find his head. We can’t kill him until we have it.’

  And then something struck and all went black.

  I came to with a mind of mutton, my nose on the floor. Madame Durrell was crouched over me as if inspecting a corpse. When she rolled me over and I blinked, she jerked.

  ‘You!’

  ‘Oui, it is I,’ I groaned, remembering nothing for a moment.

  ‘Look at the mess of you! What are you doing alive?’

  What was she doing leaning over me? Her flame-red hair always alarmed me, erupting in a wiry cloud like escaping watch springs. Was it time for rent already? The warring calendars kept me in constant confusion.

  Then I remembered the assault.

  ‘They said they were reluctant to kill me.’

  ‘How dare you entertain such ruffians! You think you can create a wilderness here in Paris as in America? You will pay for every sou in repairs!’

  I groggily sat up. ‘Is there damage?’

  ‘An apartment in shambles, a good bed ruined! Do you know what my kind of quality costs these days?’

  Now I began to make sense of the muddle, scraps pulsing through the gong that was my head. ‘Madame, I am a victim more than you.’ My sword had disappeared with my assailants. Just as well, since it was more for show than utility: I’d never been trained to use the thing and it banged annoyingly on the thigh. Given a choice, I’d rely on my longrifle or Algonquin tomahawk. I’d adopted the hatchet during my fur-trading days, learning from the Indians and voyageurs its utility as weapon, scalper, hammer, chopper, shaver, trimmer, and rope cutter. I couldn’t understand how Europeans did without one.

  ‘When I pounded on the door, your companions said you were drunk after whoring! That you were out of control!’

  ‘Madame Durrell, those were thieves, not companions.’ I looked about. The shutters were now open, admitting full morning light, and my apartment looked like it had been struck by a cannon ball. Cabinets were open, their contents spilt like an avalanche. An armoire was on its side. My fine feather mattress was flipped and torn, bits of down floating in the air. A bookcase was toppled, my small library splayed. My gambling winnings were gone from my hollowed copy of Newton’s treatise on optics that Franklin had bestowed as a gift – surely he hadn’t expected me to read the thing – and my shirt was ripped open to my belly button. I knew it hadn’t been torn to admire my chest. ‘I’ve been invaded.’

  ‘Invaded? They said you invited them!’

  ‘Who said?’

  ‘Soldiers, ruffians, vagabonds … they had hats, capes, and heavy boots. They told me there’d been an argument over cards and you would pay for damages.’

  ‘Madame, I was almost murdered. I was away all night, came home, surprised thieves, and was knocked unconscious. Though I don’t know what I had to steal.’ I glanced at the wainscoting and saw it had been pried loose. Was my hidden rifle safe? Then my eye strayed to my chamber pot, as rank as before. Good.

  ‘Indeed, why would thieves bother with a shabby fellow like you?’ She looked at me sceptically. ‘An American! All know your kind has no money.’

  I set a stool upright and sat down heavily. She was right. Any neighbourhood shopkeeper could have told robbers I was behind on my debts. It must have been my winnings, including the medallion. Until the next game, I’d been rich. Someone from the cozy followed me here, knowing I’d leave shortly for Minette’s. The captain? Silano? And I’d caught them with my dawn return. Or had they waited because they hadn’t foun
d what they were looking for? And who knew of my amorous plans? Minette, for one. She’d pressed herself against me quickly enough. Was she in league with a scoundrel? It was a common enough ploy among prostitutes.

  ‘Madame, I take responsibility for all repairs.’

  ‘I would like to see the money to back that up, monsieur.’

  ‘As would I.’ I stood unsteadily.

  ‘You must explain to the police!’

  ‘I can best explain after questioning someone.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The young woman who led me astray.’

  Madame Durrell snorted, and yet showed a glimmer of sympathy. For a man to be made a fool by a woman? Very French.

  ‘Will you allow me the privacy to right my furniture, repair my clothes, and dress my bruises, madame? In spite of what you think, I’m modest.’

  ‘A poultice is what you need. And keeping your breeches belted.’

  ‘Of course. But I am also a man.’

  ‘Well.’ She stood. ‘Every franc of this goes on your rent, so you’d better get back what you lost.’

  ‘You can be certain of it.’

  I pushed her outside and closed the door, setting the big pieces to right. Why hadn’t they just killed me? Because they hadn’t found what they were looking for. What if they returned, or a snoopy Madame Durrell decided to do her own cleaning? I put on a new shirt and fully pried open the wainscot by my washbasin. Yes, my Pennsylvania longrifle was safe: it was too obvious to carry about in a Paris street and too conspicuous to hock, since it might be identified with me. My tomahawk was also there, and this I tucked into my favourite place, the small of my back beneath my jacket. And the medallion? I went to the chamber pot.