Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “All the more reason to let the jeweler deal with it. Honorable men do not trade in loot from tombs.” He checked behind them once more.

  “We’re safe?” she asked.

  “As far as I can determine,” he said, gesturing to her to move faster. “I don’t like this.”

  “That we aren’t being followed?” she asked, puzzled by his attitude.

  “That I can’t be certain we’re not being followed,” Roustam-Raza corrected her. “Watch carefully. In such a crowd as this ...” He substituted a gesture for the words he could not find.

  She stifled her doubt and began to observe the passers-by more closely. It helped her set aside the keen disappointment she felt at discovering the jeweler was not selling the scepter. She had been so certain and her certainty had been dashed.

  Then something caught her attention and she stared at a man approaching her. He looked very much like many of the Egyptians around them. His dress was the same white burnoose and turban that most of the men wore. His beard was black and carefully trimmed; his face was darkened with sun and weather, like so many of the other seafarers around them. What was it that held Victoire’s attention? She was about to look away when she saw it again: at the neck opening of the burnoose she saw a flash of gold. This time she was able to see it clearly. And then she realized the rest. She had seen such a collar before.

  The man was wearing a British naval uniform beneath his Egyptian garb.

  “IT’S MOST INCONVENIENT having Murat gone on patrol,” said Victoire to Roustam-Raza as they rode through the crowded streets of Alexandria. “I feel we are given this task for no reason but to keep us occupied while he is off with his troops.” She had worn her fashionable woman’s shako with the widest brim; her sunburn was peeling and she was grateful for once that Lucien Vernet was in Jaffa instead of being with her. Her riding habit was new, made for the desert of fine linen instead of wool, trimmed to her slender frame and ornamented with a standing hussar’s collar and embroidered epaulets. She had even adopted shorter boots that reached no higher than the swell of her calf.

  “About all I could do to be cooler is ride in my shift and stockings,” she had remarked to Vernet in her letter. “This is the best I can do to relieve myself of the heat. I wish I had the fortitude of character that the Great Catherine of Russia had, and could bring myself to have breeches made so I might ride astride.” She had assured him at once that she would not do so shocking a thing. “Doubtless Napoleon would direct one of his scathing remarks at me, and all the wives who do not shun me now would be glad of the excuse to treat me as if I were invisible.” She had decided that was too oppressive in tone, and so she added, “Not that I seek to be always in the social whirl, for no one feels much like whirling in this godforsaken place.” Gracious, she had thought as she read her letter, am I always going to complain to him? “Your predicament gives me megrims from time to time. I beg you will pay them no heed. Not that I will not be glad to be back in France for all this country’s fascinating mysteries.

  “And speaking of mysteries and megrims,” she had continued, “I dare to hope that we may have made some progress on unraveling how you came to be in this coil. We—Roustam-Raza, Murat, and I—have found proof that there is a spy for the English who has been in the camp. If there is some way to link that spy to the missing scepter, then Berthier will have to direct his inquiries elsewhere, and you, my dearest husband, may return to me at last.”

  Now, as she and Roustam-Raza rode toward the villa, she observed, “I believe that if we can produce this Englishman, we must consider my husband exonerated of the suspicion that has been put upon him.”

  Roustam-Raza was riding on her left so that she would not have to swivel about in the saddle in order to speak to him. “If we can produce the Englishman, if he will talk, and if what he says has anything to do with the stolen scepter. Then, perhaps you are right, and your husband will no longer be blamed for the theft.” He shook his head in condemnation. “It was a bad act, taking that ancient scepter. No one who has honor will do it. There are men who steal from the dead—especially the long dead—but they are no worse than the ghouls who come into the graveyards at night to feed on the flesh of the newly buried.”

  “Roustam-Raza!” Victoire cried, revolted at the idea. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The demons who defile corpses, who come to pull them out of their graves and devour them down to the bones.” He took a wicked delight in dwelling on this horror. “No wise man goes near a graveyard once night has fallen, for the ghouls would turn upon him. Living flesh is more desirable than the dead.” He smacked his lips, which Victoire found grotesque. “Every Muslim knows this.”

  Victoire suppressed a shudder. “There are other explanations for why the dead might be disturbed, and there is no need of supernatural agents to explain it. Doubtless there are stray dogs that dig up bodies.” She swallowed hard and made herself go on unconcernedly. “From time to time such things happen in France, and only the ignorant attribute the events to the loup-garou or demons.”

  “The loup-garou?” asked Roustam-Raza. They had reached the old south gate now and were passing beyond the city.

  “The man who is cursed to be a wolf, or so the legends tell,” said Victoire, going on with feigned nonchalance. “There are many superstitious people who believe in those curses.”

  “They are not so superstitious,” said Roustam-Raza. “We know of these, as well. But they are not wolves, they are leopards and hyenas and foxes.”

  As they started down the road, Victoire changed the subject. “We’re coming to know the way quite well, aren’t we?”

  Roustam-Raza accepted this shift in direction. “Better every day. If we continue to watch another week, the horses will come of their own accord and we will not need our reins.” He motioned her to the edge of the road so that farmers bound for market could maneuver their carts and their asses.

  “Do you think anyone will return there? If they know we have discovered them, might they not find another meeting place?” She hated to hear her own voice speak such ominous words, but the questions had been building in her since she rose that morning.

  “With Murat on patrol, I think it is possible they will come back. They will assume it is safe because Murat is not in Alexandria. Which is why it is best that we watch them.” He touched the scimitar in his belt. “They will not expect us to be on guard.”

  “How do you mean?” Victoire asked. “Why is this better?”

  “Because they are foolish men, I think, who believe that Mamelukes are children. They will learn otherwise.” He chuckled. “The French have learned it already.”

  “Yes,” said Victoire thoughtfully. They were about half-way to the isolated villa and the morning was growing steadily hotter. “Wherever they are, you may be certain they’ll rest through the heat of the day, as any sensible person ought to.”

  “The English are not sensible,” said Roustam-Raza. “Often they work while the sun is at its height. It is not a sensible thing to do. They turn red as Tyre dye.” He laughed aloud.

  “I’ve heard it said they collapse from the heat on occasion.” She felt a sudden urge to defend the English.

  “They don’t bring salt-dried fish with them, and they become ill.” He shook his head merrily. “They are very foolish.”

  “And if they attack at midday, what then?” Victoire watched him, her eyes bright. “Do you let them run over you, or do you mount up and fight?”

  “It is very bad for the horses, but we fight,” said Roustam-Raza. “Because they are foolish, we are made to suffer.”

  “That may be said of more than English soldiers,” Victoire told him.

  The Mameluke sighed. “The Infidel is everywhere.”

  Victoire had heard this complaint from Muslims before and she no longer rose to respond, knowing it was futile. Muslims did not see
the world as Europeans did, and there was nothing she could do that would change them. Many times she was puzzled by what Roustam-Raza thought was obvious, but she had done her best to accept him on his terms. She directed her attention ahead on the road where the track turned off. “Look. Aren’t those—” She pointed to the four deep, new ruts.

  “A buggy; not large enough for a proper carriage.” Roustam-Raza pulled in his horse and dismounted. “It passed this way not very long ago,” he said as he knelt down beside the narrow way.

  “That means it could still be here?” asked Victoire, feeling excited.

  “If it has not left another way,” said Roustam-Raza before he vaulted back into the saddle. “Let us be cautious, Madame.”

  “Yes,” said Victoire with alacrity. She felt a ripple of excitement go through her, like wind passing over a field of grain. “This is a very good thing, finding someone at this villa,” she said as she followed Roustam-Raza across the little bridge. If only she could convince herself of it.

  As they came up to the villa, they could see an old four-wheeled tilbury standing in front of the garden gate, the aged gray horse contentedly chewing from his nosebag.

  “Whoever is here, they’re not afraid of being discovered,” Victoire observed, trying not to be disappointed.

  “No, but I will speak with them in any case,” added Roustam-Raza as he swung out of the saddle. “You must remain out here.” Before Victoire could sputter her objection, the Mameluke added, “So that you may lead away the horse and carriage, in case they attempt an escape.”

  Victoire regarded him skeptically. “I know when I’m being maneuvered, sir,” she warned him.

  “Since we do not know who is in there or how they may be armed it would be best for you to remain out here, where you can cut off their escape if things go ill with me.” He drew his scimitar and started into the villa, moving with stealth.

  As she watched him go, Victoire nudged her mount nearer the gray harnessed to the carriage. “Don’t cut up, fellow,” she said to the horse as she reached for the rein. “We’re not going far.”

  The old horse chuffed a warning, but after an initial resistance allowed her to lead him some short distance from the villa. There was no shade to be had, and both Victoire’s mount and the gray were sweating. Victoire took a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her brow. “I’ll see you both have water shortly,” she promised the horses.

  It was almost ten minutes later that Roustam-Raza emerged from the garden gate and summoned Victoire with a lavish sweep of his arm. “All safe!” he shouted at her.

  Victoire took hold of the carriage horse with her right hand and her mount’s reins with her left. She got them moving with a cluck or two, letting them set their own slow pace.

  “There is a caretaker,” said Roustam-Raza as Victoire came up to him. “This is his tilbury and his horse.” He held both animals while Victoire dismounted. “I have spoken with him. He is in the central room.”

  “May I talk to him?” asked Victoire.

  “That is uncertain,” said Roustam-Raza. “He is a very pious man and does not speak with Infidel, most especially Infidel women.” He pursed his lips, spat, and pulled on his moustache. “I suppose if you will cover your face he might consent to speak with you.”

  Victoire rolled her eyes heavenward. “Do you think it is necessary to go so far?”

  “It may not be, but I suspect he will not speak at all once he is offended.” He rubbed his big hands together. “Do you have anything that will serve as a veil?”

  “My handkerchief,” she said, resigned. She pulled it out of her sleeve where she had tucked it once more. “It’s edged in lace. Is that satisfactory to your pious caretaker?”

  “It may be,” said Roustam-Raza dubiously. “If he objects, we must find another way to present him with your questions.”

  “Have you asked him questions already?” Victoire inquired as she fussed with the handkerchief, trying to secure it to her lady’s shako.

  “Not very many. There are courtesies ...”

  “Of course,” she said, struggling with knotting the fine lace. “It’s going to be ruined,” she muttered as she worked.

  “There is coffee, but it would be wrong for him to serve you. I will see that coffee is prepared when we are once again in Alexandria. If you drink any while the caretaker is there, he will be—”

  “Offended,” Victoire finished with him. “Naturally.”

  “He is a simple man, and he is trying to do the bidding of the masters of this villa.” Roustam-Raza looked at her closely, nodding his approval. “It will suffice. And your habit is modest, given what it is. He will be offended at the color, but that can’t be helped.”

  Victoire shrugged, and permitted Roustam-Raza to lead the way into the garden. “The fountain ought to be cleaned,” she said as they passed it. “Look at the algae and scum floating there.”

  “It is for the masters here to correct that,” said Roustam-Raza. “You will say nothing of it.”

  “As you wish,” she assured him as they entered the house itself.

  In the main room, the caretaker sat, a cup of thick, sweet coffee in his hand. He was a small man, older than she expected and dressed all in white. The room was cooler than Victoire expected, with a slight breeze coming in through windows low on the wall. The high ceiling was painted in an elaborate, abstract pattern of reds, blues, and gold. His expression froze as Roustam-Raza led Victoire into the room, bowed in form, and burst into a long speech in Arabic. The caretaker listened, his face a study in disapproval.

  “Bow to him, Madame, and do not look at him while we speak,” Roustam-Raza instructed her, indicating a hassock across the room.

  “If it’s necessary,” she said, and did as he instructed her. Once she was seated, she said to the Mameluke, “Find out from him where the men are who were here four nights ago.”

  Roustam-Raza went into another expostulation, speaking with great feeling and energy. When the caretaker had answered, Roustam-Raza said to Victoire, “He says that the men who were here are gone now.”

  “Is that all?” asked Victoire in surprise. “I thought he said a great deal more than that.”

  “There are ways this is done, Madame,” he said firmly. “You must respect that.”

  “Very well,” she said, keeping her face averted. “Find out if he knows where they have gone. And be as specific as you can.”

  “Of course, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza, and launched once more into effusive Arabic. This time there was a bit of dialogue between the two men, as if they were clearing up a point. Finally Roustam-Raza turned to Victoire once more. “He says that the foreigners who had leased this place paid for two months beyond this time. He says that they were crazy men. Not entirely because they were foreigners, but because they were planning to go upriver without proper escort. He informs me that they were in haste. He claims he warned them of the dangers but they did not heed him.”

  “Upriver,” said Victoire, winnowing out the one salient fact. “Did they say where upriver?”

  There was another energetic exchange and Roustam-Raza said, “They wanted to go to the place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers.”

  “Do you know where that is?” asked Victoire, who had never heard of such a place.

  “It is on the west bank of the Nile, some distance from here.” He made an apologetic gesture. “I don’t know more than that.”

  Victoire was growing frustrated at the clumsiness of their interview with the caretaker. She did her best to subdue it. “Find out how long ago they left.”

  After some involved discussion, Roustam-Raza said to Victoire, “I don’t think he knows. He has said that it was no longer ago than a man might make a visit. For an Arab, such a visit is anything from two to six days.”

  “I see.” Victoire caught her lower lip between her t
eeth and snagged a bit of her handkerchief along with it. She pulled it loose and inadvertently tore her handkerchief away from her hat, leaving part of her face exposed.

  The caretaker rose abruptly and spat out several guttural phrases directed first at Victoire and then at Roustam-Raza. That done, he stormed out of the villa and was soon heard clattering away in his tilbury.

  “What was that about?” asked Victoire when the man had gone.

  Roustam-Raza shook his head several times. “You revealed your face. He was unprepared to have that happen. I told him you would not shame him, and now he is more angry at me than he is at you. He thinks that I ordered you to show him your face.” His frown deepened. “He is not pleased at what we have done.”

  “I could tell that,” said Victoire, taking the handkerchief him. “A pity. We might have learned more from him.”

  “Pardon, Madame, but I do not think so.” Roustam-Raza stared up at the ceiling. “I believe he truly does not know more than he told us. He is one who does not want to have much contact with foreigners. And Infidels.”

  “I thought as much,” said Victoire. “Very well, we will not require him to. I think this might be the time to look elsewhere for our answers. If the men went up the river, they must have hired a boat. Therefore we must find out who has taken such a commission and learn where they were bound.” She tapped her lips with her forefinger. “I suppose it would be best if we find Murat as soon as possible.”

  “He is on patrol, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza. “It won’t be easy to find him.” He ventured a suggestion. “He will return shortly. A day or two more at most. Why not wait until then?”

  “Why not?” Victoire echoed as if she had not heard him correctly. “Why should I jeopardize our chance of catching those ... criminals waiting for Murat? He may be delayed, and then we would be farther behind than we are already.” She tapped her foot impatiently. “He said that the men who were here have paid for the use of this place for at least another month, didn’t he?”