Ethan Gage Collection # 1
Page 75
“Done. But we’ll confiscate your ammunition, I think, until I’m well out of range.” As they handed back my empty long rifle, he turned and contemplated the palace. “My government will begin in the Luxembourg, of course. But I’ve a mind this could be my home. Your fire is an excuse to start remodeling: This very morning!”
“How fortunate I could be of assistance.”
“You realize that it’s because your character is so empty that it’s not worth the bullets to kill you?”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“And that France and America share the same interests against perfidious Britain?”
“England does have a way of being overbearing at times.”
“I don’t trust you either, Gage. You’re a rascal. But work with me and maybe something will come of it. You’ve yet to make your fortune, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that, First Consul. After nearly two years of adventure, I don’t have a penny to my name.”
“I can be generous to friends. So. My aides will find you a hotel, well away from that horrid landlady of yours. What a Medusa! I’ll start you on a small allowance and count on you not to risk it at cards. We’ll dock some until I get my livres back, of course.”
I sighed. “Of course.”
“And you, lady?” he addressed Astiza. “Are you ready to see America?”
She’d looked troubled as we talked. Now, she hesitated and then slowly, sadly, shook her head. “No, Consul.”
“No?”
“I’ve been searching my heart these long dark days, and I’ve realized I belong in Egypt as much as Ethan does not. Your country is beautiful but cold, and its forest shadows the soul. The American wilderness would be worse. This isn’t my place. Nor do I think we’ve found the last trace of Thoth or the Templars. Send Ethan on your mission, but understand why I must return to Cairo and your institute of savants.”
“Madame, I cannot guarantee your safety in Egypt. I don’t know if I’ll be able to rescue my army.”
“Isis has a role for me, and it’s not across the ocean.” She turned.
“I’m sorry, Ethan. I love you, as you’ve loved me. But my quest is not entirely over. The time hasn’t come for us to settle down together. It will, perhaps. It will.”
By the swamps of Georgia, could I never succeed with women? I go through Dante’s inferno, finally dispose of her former lover, get a respectable job from the new government of France—and now she wants to leave? It was insane!
Or was it? I was in no mood to nest just yet, and really had no idea where this next adventure might take me. Nor was Astiza the type of woman to trail docilely in my wake. I, too, was intrigued to learn more about ancient Egypt, so maybe she could start that path while I ran Bonaparte’s errands in America. A few diplomatic dinners, a quick look at a sugar isle or two, and I’d be free of the man and ready to plan our future.
“Won’t you miss me?” I risked.
She smiled sadly. “Oh, yes. Life is sorrow. But life is also destiny, Ethan, and this stay of execution is a sign that the next door must be opened, the next path taken.”
“How do I know we’ll see each other again?”
She smiled sadly, regretfully, and yet sweetly, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she whispered. “Bet on it, Ethan Gage. Play the cards.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
If we learn more from our mistakes than our successes, then Napoleon’s 1799 campaign in the Holy Land was education in the extreme. His attacks were impatient and ill-prepared at Acre. He alienated most of the indigenous population. The massacre and subsequent execution of prisoners at Jaffa were to plague his reputation the rest of his life. Scarcely better were reports that he was guilty of mercy-killing his own troops by distributing opium and poison to dying plague victims. He would not experience such an embarrassing military and political setback until his invasion of Russia in 1812.
And yet, by the close of 1799, Bonaparte had not just survived a military debacle; the Corsican had so adroitly manipulated public opinion back in France that he found himself first consul of his adopted nation, on his way to becoming emperor. Modern politicians who seem coated with Teflon (meaning that nothing critical sticks to them) cannot compare to the slickness of Napoleon Bonaparte. How could he achieve such turnaround from such disaster? That’s the mischievous mystery at the center of this book.
For fiction readers curious about such things, much of this novel is true. The tragedy of Jaffa, the Battle of Mount Tabor, and the siege of Acre went much as described, although I have taken liberties with details. Ethan Gage and his electrified chain are an invention, and so is Napoleon’s battering-ram torpedo. But Sir Sidney Smith, Phelipeaux, Haim Farhi, and Djezzar were real. (In reality, Phelipeaux died of exhaustion or sunstroke in the siege, not bayonets.) Acre and Jaffa—the latter now a suburb of Tel Aviv—retain some of the architectural flavor of 1799, and it’s not hard to imagine Gage’s sojourn in the Holy Land. While the strategic tower and walls of the siege of Acre are gone—they were replaced after the battle with new ones by Djezzar because of the extensive damage—there’s abundant romance in walking the ramparts of this lovely Mediterranean town. To the east, a highway to Galilee cuts by the foot of the hill where Napoleon had his headquarters.
For readers interested in the history of Bonaparte’s Syrian campaign, I recommend Napoleon in the Holy Land by Nathan Schur and Bonaparte in Egypt by J. Christopher Herold. Evocative documentary watercolors made by the English artist David Roberts in 1839 are collected in a number of art books.
While I’ve imagined some of my subterranean vaults under Jerusalem’s Temple Mount—a necessity since even long-visited chambers such as Solomon’s Stables have been closed to visitors by Muslim authorities—Jerusalem is riddled with caves and tunnels. They include a dark, thigh-deep subterranean waterway from the lower Pool of Siloam that this author dutifully waded through to get a feel for the underground adventure I describe. Underground gates to long-secret tunnels under the Temple Mount exist: You can see at least one as a tourist. The Temple Mount is kept off-limits to archeologists because of fear that discovery could ignite religious strife. Explorers have been chased off by angry mobs in the past, but doesn’t that lend credence to the idea that there might still be revelations there? Just don’t show up with a shovel. You might ignite a holy war.
Some readers will recognize that the “City of Ghosts” is in fact the breathtaking Jordanian ruin of Petra, built by the Nabataean Arabs shortly before Christ and ultimately administered by the Romans. At the time Gage visits, it was indeed a lost city that would stun the first nineteenth-century Europeans to see it. While I’ve taken some obvious liberties, much is as I’ve described it. There is a High Place of Sacrifice.
The Tuileries Palace in Paris was begun in 1564 and burned down in 1871. It served as the palace of Napoleon and Josephine beginning in February of 1800, three months after he seized power. Temple Prison was also real, but has since been demolished. And yes, Notre Dame is built on the site of a Roman temple to Isis.
The lore of the Knights Templar, kabbalah symbolism, and the idea of a Book of Thoth are all real. More on Thoth can be found in the prequel to this novel, Napoleon’s Pyramids. My suggestion that Thoth’s book was found by the Templars is made up—but then what was the source of their astonishingly quick and overwhelming rise to power after they excavated under the Temple Mount? Just what did they find? Where is the biblical Ark of the Covenant? What secrets did ancient societies acquire? There is always more mystery.
I should wryly note that it may come as a surprise to the British Museum that the Rosetta Stone, proudly displayed after British troops confiscated it from the French in 1801, is in fact missing its topmost and most important piece. After reading this novel, the curators may want to put a small index card on the stone’s glass case apologizing for the omission and assuring that strenuous efforts are being made to find the fragments blown to pieces by a renegade American in Rosetta in 1799. But
that is only a suggestion—as is the idea that archeologists keep an eye out for the remaining 36,534 Books of Thoth.
If, that is, they are worthy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This author relied on the careful scholarship of a host of historians to craft this tale, plus the evocative archaeological preservation work that makes Israel and Jordan such rewarding places to visit. I thank in particular guides Paule Rakower and Professor Dan Bahat in Israel, and Mohammed Helalat in Jordan. Diane Johnson of Western Washington University provided the Templar Latin epigram, and Nancy Pearl brought to my attention the anecdote of Napoleon ripping out the pages of novels and passing them on to his officers. At HarperCollins, special thanks to my editor, Rakesh Satyal, copyeditor Martha Cameron, production editor David Koral, editorial assistant Rob Crawford, publicist Heather Drucker for her hard work getting the word out, and the many others who make publication of a book possible. Kudos of course to Andrew Stuart, the agent who keeps me in business. And, as always, thanks to my first reader, Holly.
CREDITS
Cover design by Richard Ljoenes.
Portrait of Ethan Gage by Seb Jarnot; V&A Images, London / Art Resource, NY; “Battle of the Pyramids, 21st July 1798, 1806” (oil on canvas) by Louis Lejeune (1775-1848) Chateau de Versailles / The Bridgeman Art Library; Map courtesy of Paulus Swaen
COPYRIGHT
THE ROSETTA KEY. Copyright © 2008 by William Dietrich. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition March 2008 ISBN: 9780061736704
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Map
Dedication
To my son-in-law, Sebastian
Contents
Map
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Historical Note
Credits
Copyright
Chapter 1
I SUPPOSE IT’S NOT PRECISELY TRUE THAT IT WAS SOLELY I WHO consolidated Napoleon’s power and changed the course of world history. I did contribute to his idea of crossing the Alps and outflanking the Austrians, and then had to help save the day at the Battle of Marengo—but frankly, my role was somewhat accidental. Yet what of that? Enlarging one’s part does make a good tale for the ladies, and while I, Ethan Gage, am a paragon of candor when it suits my purposes, I do have a tendency toward exaggeration when it comes to matters of the bed.
It is true that my timely service in northern Italy got me back in Bonaparte’s good graces, that my affable charm made me instrumental in forging the Treaty of Mortefontaine with American diplomats, and that my raffish reputation won me a place at the glittery château gathering to celebrate that Convention. There I managed to get embroiled in the new diversion of roulette, was sidetracked into a tumultuous tryst with Napoleon’s married sister, and still squeezed in enough time to almost be killed by fireworks. I may inflate my history to women, but no man can fault me for not keeping busy.
Unfortunately, my incautious boasting also persuaded a half-mad Norwegian to enlist me in a dubious and mystical quest a continent away from comfort—proof again that vanity is peril and modesty the wiser course. Better to keep one’s mouth shut and be suspected of being a fool than open and confirm it.
Ah, but the breasts of Pauline Bonaparte were lifted like white pillows by her bewitching gown, her brother’s wine cellar had my head swimming, and when powerful men are urging you to share your exploits, it’s difficult not to admit you’ve had a role directing history. Especially when you’ve taken your audience for a hundred francs at the gaming table! Pretending to be important or clever makes one’s victim feel better about losing. So on I prattled, the eavesdropping Norseman with a beard the color of flame eyeing me with ever-greater interest, and my own eye on flirtatious Pauline, knowing she was about as faithful to husband General Charles Leclerc as an alley cat during a full moon. The minx had the beauty of Venus and the discrimination of a sailor in a grog shop. No wonder she winked at me.
The date was September 30, 1800—or, by the French Revolutionary calendar, the eighth day of Vendémiaire in the Year IX. Napoleon had declared the revolution over, himself as its culmination, and we all hoped he’d soon throw out the annoying ten-day-a-week calendar, since rumor had it that he was attempting to cut a deal with the Pope to bring back Catholic priests. No one missed Sabbath services, but we all were nostalgic for lazy Sundays. Bonaparte was still feeling his way, however. He’d only seized power some ten months before (thanks in part to the mystical Book of Thoth I’d found in a lost city), and barely won Marengo by a whisker. Settling France’s hash with America—my nation had won some impressive duels with French warships and played havoc with French shipping—was another step toward consolidating rule. Our feuding countries were, after all, the world’s only two republics, though Napoleon’s autocratic style was straining that definition in France. And a treaty! It was no accident that the French elite had been turned out at Mortefontaine for this celebration. No warrior was better at publicizing his peacemaking than Bonaparte.
Mortefontaine is a lovely château some thirty-five kilometers north of Paris. Far enough, in other words, for France’s new leaders to party in style well out of sight of the mob that had put them there. The mansion had been purchased by Bonaparte’s brother Joseph, and none of those assembled dared suggest it was a tad ostentatious for the inheritors of the Revolution. Napoleon, just thirty-one, was the most astute observer of human nature I ever met, and he’d wasted little time giving France back some of the royalist trappings it had missed since chopping off the head of King Louis and guillotining the nation’s lace makers. It was permissible to be rich again! Ambitious! Elegant! Velvet, which had been forbidden during the Terror, was not just permitted but in style. Wigs might be a relic of the last century, but gold military braid was de rigueur in this one. The lovely grounds were swarming with newly powerful men, newly seductive women, and enough silk and brocade to get the haberdasheries of Paris humming, albeit on more classical, Republican lines. Lafayette and La Rochefoucauld had invited every prominent American in Paris, even me. Our total assembly numbered two hundred, all of us heady with American triumph and French wine.
Bonaparte had insisted that his festival organizer, Jean-Etienne Despeaux, achieve perfection in record time. Accordingly, that famed marshal of merriment hired the architect Cellerier to revamp the theater, recruited a troupe from the Comédie Française to
play a ribald sketch on transatlantic relations, and prepared the fireworks display with which I was about to become all too familiar.
Three great tables were set out in the Orangerie, in three adjoining rooms. The first was the Room of the Union, the head wall hung with a scroll of the Atlantic, with Philadelphia on one side and Le Havre on the other, the intervening sea topped by an airborne half-naked woman who represented peace by holding an olive branch in her fingers. Why the doxies in these European paintings always have their clothes slipping off I don’t know, but I must say it’s a custom my own more staid America could emulate. Next to the mural were enough foliage, flowers, and folderol to start a forest fire.
The next two rooms had busts of my late mentor Benjamin Franklin and the recently deceased George Washington, respectively. Outside in the park was an obelisk with allegorical figures representing France and America, and the whole affair was frocked with tricolor bunting. Rose petals floated in pools and fountains, rented peacocks strutted on lawns, and artillery banged salutes. It seemed to me that Despeaux had earned his money, and that I, finally, was among friends.