Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  While the streets were incredibly crowded, the crowd seemed to part for the Mameluke. The Frenchwoman also noted that even when there was almost no space for them to pass, the Egyptian peasants were careful to avoid even brushing against her. Their trek ended in a massive market that bordered the Nile. Occasionally a cool breeze off the water tempered the dry heat that made the air shimmer inside the merchant’s stalls. The clamor of bargaining, braying camels, and clanging pottery rose to a din that made talking difficult.

  “You cannot expect to find Berthier in this crowd,” Roustam-Raza said to Victoire as they made their way through the booths of brass sellers. “You do not know where he is in the city.” He clapped his hands in aggravation. “You should never have come here. I was a fool to listen to you. There is no worth in the plans of women.”

  “Do be quiet,” said Victoire as she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re attracting attention.”

  “I am not. You are attracting attention. That yellow silk over your face fools no one. Your skin is white and your clothes can be seen whenever the breeze stirs the cloth. Everyone knows that you are French.” His accent was rougher, as if his frustration worked on his tongue.

  “And you are making them certain of it, if they were in doubt,” she reminded him. She paused to stare at three enormous platters of hammered brass. At another time she would have been tempted to bargain with the vendor for such beautiful work. “Ask this man if he has seen Berthier.”

  “No,” said Roustam-Raza. “He will not know one Frenchman from another, and he would lie, in any case.”

  “I don’t know enough to ask him myself,” said Victoire with false innocence.

  Roustam-Raza turned on her. “You will not do such a thing. He will not speak with a Frenchwoman, no matter what words she uses.” He made a sweeping gesture to take in the bazaar. “Why would Berthier be purchasing brass, in any case?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know why he is in Cairo,” she reminded him. “What is in the next street? Is there another market?” She did her best to sound optimistic but inwardly she had begun to doubt the wisdom of their action.

  “There are sellers of incense two streets away,” said Roustam-Raza, his manner suddenly acquiescent, which roused her suspicions.

  “Should we go there?” she asked in some surprise.

  “We should go somewhere; we are being followed.” He hitched his shoulder to indicate an area behind him.

  Victoire glanced in that direction but could make out no one who appeared to be after them. “Are you certain?”

  “Of course I am certain,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “Then let us proceed to the street of the incense sellers. We might be able to find out who they are and why they are following us,” she said, pleased that the fear that had taken hold of her had not reached her voice.

  “I do not want to know why. I want them to stop,” said Roustam-Raza darkly as he moved her ahead of him and drew his dagger from his sheath. “If they come for us, stay behind me.”

  It took her a moment to answer. “They’re not going to come for us, Roustam-Raza.”

  “If it is the will of Allah,” he answered doubtfully.

  They slipped through an alley and down a narrow street where the buildings leaned together, throwing everything beneath into perpetual twilight.

  “This is not a good place,” said Roustam-Raza, “Hurry. Through that passage.” He shoved her ahead of him, all the while glancing back over his shoulder. “They will try to rush us here.”

  Victoire did not argue. She could sense the Mameluke’s concern and knew that it was more than his Muslim apprehension of women that prompted his urgency. “Have you seen anyone?”

  “They are coming,” he answered, volunteering nothing more.

  “Can you see them?” she persisted, making her way past a drooping mule laden with bales of flax.

  “They are coming,” he repeated. “Hurry.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said, stumbling ahead while trying to keep her face covered with the length of yellow silk he had insisted she wear.

  The street of the incense merchants was lined with canvas booths, much the way the brass sellers’ had been. But here there were the heady scents of spices and flowers and rare oils, and the merchants were graver, as suited those purveying incense.

  Roustam-Raza carne up behind Victoire. “Be careful. Stay very close to me. They are going to try to separate us.”

  “I will,” she said, and looked down the curving street as far as she could see. “Is it always this crowded?”

  “Oh, yes. Sometimes it is much worse,” he said. “These merchants are busy every day but holy days.” He kept her moving. “I don’t like this. I don’t like to be chased.”

  “Neither do I,” said Victoire. “But at present there is little we can do about it.” She looked around, wondering what it was that alerted Roustam-Raza to their danger—if they were truly in danger. As her eyes lingered on a cavernous doorway, she spotted a familiar figure. “Roustam-Raza!” she cried urgently. “There! Berthier!”

  The Mameluke glanced where she was pointing and he straightened.

  “Indeed,” he said, as he recognized the general’s aide. “What would he want here?”

  “We must find out,” said Victoire, her determination renewed. She was prepared to push through the crowd but Roustam-Raza held her back.

  “No. It would not be proper. And it would bring more attention to you. It isn’t wise, Madame Vernet.” He still held his dagger at the ready. “Stay with me, a step behind. I will try to reach the door.”

  “We don’t want him seeing us,” she reminded the Mameluke.

  His gesture was resigned. “Then we will wait until he is gone.” He glanced around again. “If we are permitted to.”

  “Have the followers found us?” she asked, still not wholly convinced they existed anywhere but in Roustam-Raza’s imagination.

  “I have seen only one.” He shocked them both by taking hold of her elbow. “Come. We must distract them or they will be able to surround us, and then we will have no recourse but to fight, and that would be ... foolish.”

  She wondered what he was going to say instead of foolish, but she kept the speculation to herself. “What do you plan to do?”

  “Cause an upset,” he answered, and made his way through the merchants and patrons toward a little square at the end of the street where bundles were stacked in large pyramids almost as tall as a grown man. “Those are their supplies, the material for making incense,” he explained as he pointed at the stacks.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Victoire, more curious than frightened.

  “Stay back and you’ll see,” said Roustam-Raza as he moved quickly, his shoulder slamming into the most top-heavy of the pyramids. He grunted as the stack wavered, toppled, and gave way, crashing into the pyramid beside it and breaking it apart as well.

  A loud wail of protest went up throughout the market and men lurched and stumbled out of their booths to save their precious materials.

  “There they are,” said Roustam-Raza, moving backward to Victoire’s side. He pointed to the far side of the little square; four men were emerging from the narrow side street, all of them armed with cutlasses and two pistols in leather belts. “They aren’t Egyptians.”

  “I can see that,” said Victoire, astonished at the methodical way the men started to make their way through the newly erupting chaos to where she and the Mameluke were.

  “We’d better leave,” said Roustam-Raza, pointing to an opening in the crowd. “Go to the right and then we will be able to return to the district of cloth merchants. We’ll get away.”

  “So will Berthier,” said Victoire heavily. “We’ve come so close.”

  “As have the men following us,” Roustam-Raza said with urgency. “Move. Hurry.”

  “Bu
t Berthier—” she protested, then did as he required of her.

  They reckoned without the incense merchants, for the shouting and confusion was spreading, and what had been a disruption was fast becoming a riot.

  The men behind them began to push harder through the crowd. As they did, an elderly man whom they thrust aside fell against another pyramid of baskets. It rumbled to the beaten dust of the street; one basket broke open and spilled a red powder onto the ground. At that several merchants yelled in despair and rushed toward the chaos. Another, fearing the clamor was a thief’s intended distraction or lucky opportunity, raised a cry which Victoire later learned merchants used to warn each other that there was a thief in their midst. Blocked by the crowd, one of the men fired a pistol into the air. Rather than clearing a path, this stirred the natives to greater excitement. Knives began to appear and the Mameluke kept his hand on his scimitar.

  The four Europeans had just cleared the fallen baskets when a young man in a yellow robe broke out of a knot of milling men and charged their pursuers. As he ran he drew a wicked-looking knife from his belt. He rose to strike, but fell away when another of the four men shot him in the chest. Suddenly the small square was filled with cries of outrage. Several more men began running toward the four Europeans, while calmer men tried to restrain them.

  Victoire did not object when Roustam-Raza shielded her body with his own and started a very slow progress along the wall. He had drawn his scimitar now that the fighting had grown so fierce.

  The four men had ceased trying to push after Victoire and the Mameluke had begun a hurried retreat. Even as they did so, a shot fired from a nearby rooftop echoed between the buildings. To her left Victoire saw a stall filled with shelves of jars and pots collapse under the pressure of the mob. Someone to her left grabbed the Frenchwoman’s arm and stared with wild eyes at her fair skin and blonde hair. His outraged scream was cut short by the sudden impact of Roustam-Raza’s elbow on his neck. His eyes glazed almost instantly and he collapsed at her feet.

  Then there was another sound at the far end of the street—the shrill, echoing blare of a trumpet.

  The four men were now standing with their cutlasses drawn and their backs against the wall. A ring of local men stood threateningly a few steps away, most brandishing clubs or knives. Several smaller fights had broken out all over the square. Victoire saw one man, his dagger red with blood, shove his way into a side street. In the square the combatants faltered, then began again.

  A second, louder bray of the trumpet came, and with it the clatter of many hooves. A few moments later a squadron of French cavalry pressed its way into the little square, stopping the last of the fray at once. Instantly the mob began to disperse, but the hussars spurred at them, swords drawn. The horsemen began to drive the Egyptians back to their houses and stalls using the flat sides of their swords.

  The men who had been following Victoire and Roustam-Raza disappeared with the bulk of the crowd and the injured.

  Roustam-Raza stepped toward the leader of the cavalry as the dark-haired and devilishly handsome young officer in splendid uniform swung off his glossy ermine dun. He bowed in the Egyptian manner and said, “You are a very welcome sight.” Victoire noticed that he had reinjured his arm.

  The officer blinked, then understanding came into his eyes. “Oh, yes. You’re that Egyptian the Pasha gave to Napoleon, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” said Roustam-Raza, standing more straight with pride. “Your appearance was fortunate. We had been followed by foreign brigands. In all this ... activity, I feared they might do us harm.”

  “Us,” said the officer. “And who is us?”

  Roustam-Raza stood aside and permitted Victoire to come forward. She made a point of thanking the Mameluke before giving her attention to the cavalry officer, a man she recognized as one of the many eager young officers around Napoleon. This one had been at the beach when they watched that horrible disaster. “I am most grateful for your arrival,” she said, holding out her hand. “I am Madame Vernet. My husband is Gendarme Major Lucien Vernet, currently posted to Jaffa, as Inspector-General.”

  A quick look of puzzlement and sympathy passed over the officer’s face, then he bowed in form and gave her a dazzling smile. “I am General Joachim Murat, very much at your service, madame.” He touched the back of her hand with his lips. “And the next time I see your husband, I will tell him what a lucky man he is.”

  * * *

  All the way back to the French camp the troopers moved slowly to keep the horses from growing too tired or thirsty in the heat. It was a long ride, taking several hours, and seemed longer in the afternoon heat. As they went, Murat engaged Victoire in light and affable conversation, spicing it with just enough gossip to make it interesting for them both. The day began to fade toward a blazing sunset. Only when their tents were in sight did he become more serious. “I don’t want to cause you any alarm, madame, but your Egyptian guard was right when he told you it wasn’t safe to go to Cairo. In future I recommend you listen to him and take his advice.”

  “Are you telling me I can’t count on you to appear at the crucial moment next time?” she asked, striving to keep the light and gallant tone he had used before.

  “Alas, no. Those were most likely Turks, or Greeks. If they had caught you—and I am assuming that the Mameluke is correct and you were being stalked, it has happened before to European women—there would have been no way to rescue you. Women here are less than cattle, Madame Vernet; once taken as a man’s property there’s no power in the country to release you, unless you are sold.”

  “If they wanted to hold me for ransom,” she said, choosing deliberately to misunderstand him, “they chose the wrong woman. My family is not rich, I have no influential relatives, and my husband is in similar circumstances.” She looked down at the reins she held. “General Murat, I do take your warning to heart. But you say you know how things stand for my husband. You must also see that I cannot sit idly by while he is accused falsely.”

  As they spoke, the squadron passed inside the pickets that surrounded the base camp. Murat pulled his horse to a halt and motioned for his company to do the same. He rose in his stirrups and turned to the men. “You’re dismissed. I’ll escort Madame Vernet to her quarters.” His gesture sent the rest of the troopers trotting off toward the makeshift stalls where the horses were stabled. When the men were out of hearing range, he looked from Victoire to Roustam-Raza. “How much do you know of this?” he asked the Egyptian.

  “Not very much,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “Then perhaps you will permit me to speak privately with Madame Vernet? You may watch from a short distance, if you think it necessary,” said Murat, and fell silent while the Mameluke rode off a short way, turning his horse so that he could watch Victoire and Murat.

  Victoire looked directly at Murat. “What is troubling you, sir?”

  “Why, you are, Madame Vernet,” he said, his manner now grave instead of playful. “You have put yourself at hazard. I applaud your courage, but I cannot condone your lack of prudence.” He paused. “Are you certain you saw Berthier in Cairo?”

  “In the street where you found us, where the incense makers have their market,” she said. “He was in his Hessian-blue coat with the striped revers; you’ve seen it. And his hair is unmistakable.”

  “Incense.” Murat shook his head. “It must be that shrine of his. More fool he,” Murat added softly. As they spoke, they walked their horses through the camp toward Victoire’s tent.

  “Shrine?” asked Victoire, “Is he a religious man?”

  This time Murat laughed a little. “Very; devoutly, but not the way you mean. He loves a married woman, Madame Vernet.”

  “That’s no secret,” said Victoire. She chafed at her arms; between the sun and the sand her skin was parched and sore.

  “No, I suppose not,” said Murat. “He maintains a triptych to Giovanna�
�—he was pleased at the quick gasp Victoire gave at the mention of the woman’s name—”with her portrait and a lock of her hair. He burns candles before it. And incense. Near sacrilegious.”

  “Gracious,” whispered Victoire, remembering vaguely that General Murat had once studied in a seminary.

  “So there is the finale of that mystery, madame; Berthier is not a sinister criminal, only a love-besotted lunatic,” he said with a hint of regret, and added with his mercurial smile, “Still, it is lamentable that it isn’t safe to go adventuring in Egypt: I believe it would be a rare pleasure to go adventuring with you.” He lifted the reins and offered her a proper salute before wheeling his dun and cantering off in the direction his men had gone.

  Roustam-Raza waited unmoving as Victoire rode up to him. “In Egypt married women do not speak with men except their husbands and their sons.”

  “Well, Frenchwomen are not so constrained,” said Victoire automatically. She paid no heed to his disapproval. “Murat tells me that Berthier had private reasons for being in Cairo. But I am not convinced, not completely.”

  “Then we’re to watch him still?” asked Roustam-Raza.

  She did not give a direct answer. “Let’s ride by his tent before we dismount. I want to see if he has actually returned.” There was a set to her jaw that Roustam-Raza was coming to know well.

  “As you wish,” he acceded, and legged his horse down the aisle toward Berthier’s quarters.

  As they neared Berthier’ s tent, Victoire was startled to see that Berthier’s horse, still saddled, waited in front of the tent. “He must have just returned,” she said to Roustam-Raza.

  “The horse is not sweating,” the Mameluke observed. “That bucket beside him is empty, so he has been watered.”

  “But not unsaddled and groomed,” said Victoire, her blue eyes bright with speculation. “How very odd.”

  Roustam-Raza gave her a resigned stare. “Are we to watch, Madame?”