Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes, he did,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “That may well mean that they plan on coming back. In which case,” she went on, expanding on the notion that had caught her attention, “therefore it is likely that they still have associates here. Why else would they pay for the use of this villa for so long a period?”

  Roustam-Raza nodded, following her thoughts. “If there are associates still in this area, they might well return here. Is that how you see it?”

  “Yes,” said Victoire eagerly. “That is precisely how I see it. Our task of watching this place hasn’t ended, Roustam-Raza. We have much to do still. And we will send word to Murat at first light, when we should know more.” She sighed. “I don’t want to spend another night in the weeds. Little as I was dressed for it before, I’m less clothed for it now.”

  “Well, then we will pass the night in the stable,” said Roustam-Raza. “There is room for our horses, and you can sleep in the hayloft. You will be protected there, by the horses as well as by the hay. I will sleep in the garden. That way no one can come here that we will not know of it.”

  Victoire nodded. “Yes. I like it.” How good it felt to be doing something of value, something that could prove useful to Napoleon and deliver her husband from his ordeal at the same time! She wadded up her torn handkerchief. “Let’s tend to the horses. We’ll decide about the food afterward.”

  * * *

  It was after midnight and Roustam-Raza was once again on his self-appointed rounds. He stopped where the horses were stalled and called very softly, “Madame Vernet?”

  “I’m awake,” she answered from the hayloft, doing her best not to take her ill-humor out on him. “I doubt I’ll sleep an hour in this place. I keep thinking I hear rats.”

  “No doubt you do,” said Roustam-Raza. “In a place like this, you must expect them.”

  Victoire wanted to issue a sharp rejoinder but managed to keep silent. The rats were not Roustam-Raza’s fault, and as a soldier’s wife she ought to be inured to such inconveniences, as she had accustomed herself to sand in her food. She tossed on the brittle hay and took a deep sigh. “I suppose now we’re here we might as well remain. But I doubt anyone will come here so late at night.”

  “It would be strange,” said Roustam-Raza carefully. “Would you prefer to return to Alexandria and try again at first light?”

  “Yes,” she said, and then immediately, “No. If we could be there instantly and back here the same magical way, I would want to return to the bed that waits for me. But it is an hour into the city and an hour back. We would be very poor sentries if we behaved so.” She stretched, hoping that she might find a position that was a little more comfortable than the one she currently occupied.

  “I am sorry these precautions are unpleasant,” said Roustam-Raza.

  Victoire answered him in rallying tones. “I’m sure it is far more unpleasant to be wakened by someone holding a knife to your throat, which I fear could happen if we slept inside the house.”

  Roustam-Raza was truly shocked. “We could not both sleep inside, madame. It isn’t possible. You must not think such a thing, or say it, even in jest.”

  She pulled herself to the edge of the loft to look down at him. “But surely in circumstances like these ...”

  “Madame Vernet,” he said firmly, “I will not disgrace you and myself.”

  “I never thought you would,” said Victoire, surprised at the heat of his tone. “But I can’t see how—”

  “I will make a place for you to sleep inside, if that is what you truly wish—although I must advise against it as unsafe—but I will not behave immorally.” He coughed. “You cannot tell me that your husband would approve of my sharing this place with you, not without protection.”

  “He would prefer I avoid compromising situations, but if I am required to make the best of a difficult—” she began, only to be cut off.

  “You do not want to shame him,” said Roustam-Raza firmly.

  “Of course not,” said Victoire, realizing now that he was deeply affronted. “I didn’t realize how strict your precepts are, Roustam-Raza. You’ll have to forgive me.”

  “I will,” said Roustam-Raza. He paused. “Do you want to sleep inside the villa?”

  “Very much,” she answered with feeling. “But I won’t.” He started to laugh, and then he froze. A moment later he carefully motioned her to silence. Beside him, one of the horses whickered.

  “What is it?” Victoire whispered when the tension grew too great for her.

  “Someone is coming,” said Roustam-Raza very softly. “The river animals are quiet, and the horse—”

  “You’re certain?” Victoire asked, her voice just loud enough to reach him. “I hear nothing.”

  “Yes. Because someone is coming.” He came a little nearer the loft. “Remain here. And keep the knife you have ready. If you must, take the horses and go.”

  “But—” she protested.

  Roustam-Raza moved away, more like a shadow than a man.

  Then she heard a horse—just one horse—come to the villa, and in a short while, the steps of a man leading the horse around to the stalls. Victoire hunkered down in the loft, listening so intently that she heard the little sounds of her clothes scratched by the hay.

  The newcomer was almost inside the stalls when he pulled back. “What the devil?” he exclaimed in English.

  Victoire’s mare whinnied, and the newly arrived horse whinnied in answer. The noise, in such close quarters, was deafening.

  “Bloody sod,” said the Englishman, slapping his horse with the rein or a crop. He came a few steps closer to Victoire’s hiding place. “Whose are these?”

  If he expected an answer, he was disappointed. He chose the remaining stall and put his horse in it, but did not remove the saddle or bridle.

  He thinks he will have to escape, thought Victoire as she peered over the edge of the loft, a loose tangle of hay in front of her as camouflage.

  The man was on the alert. He took a pistol from his belt and held it at the ready as he came to examine the two horses. “French gear,” he muttered as he fingered the tack. “Well, well, well.” The edge in his voice made this commonplace utterance frightening. He returned to his own mount and took something from the saddle. Then there was the sound of gentle pouring as his horse whuffled.

  He must be giving him oats, thought Victoire, and heard the horse start to chew.

  “Make the most of it,” the Englishman advised the animal as he made his way out of the stall, his pistol raised.

  In the next instant a tremendous shadow filled the door to the stalls: Roustam-Raza stood at his full height, his scimitar over his head as he rushed at the intruder.

  The Englishman fired his pistol, the ball going wild.

  Roustam-Raza ran directly at him, shouting so loudly that the horses fidgeted in their stalls. The Mameluke’s opponent bent low, dodging under the sword, and met the charge. Roustam-Raza crashed into the Englishman, his scimitar leaping from his hand with the fury of their collision, and the two men went down together, thrashing on the floor.

  At first Victoire was amazed at what she saw, and she gazed in repelled fascination as the two men kicked and jabbed and pounded and grunted. She had seen workmen brawl before, but never with this concentrated, deadly intent. Then she saw what she thought was the shine of a blade. That brought her into action at once. She clambered down from the loft and searched for a weapon in the dim light as the fight went on relentlessly.

  There was a wooden pitchfork—not very dangerous, and possibly harmful if she handled it badly. After a first satisfaction, she changed her mind and abandoned it for something more practical.

  The Englishman swore, his voice laden with fury. He struck out, smashing Roustam-Raza in the face. Blood trickled from the side of the Mameluke’s mouth, who bellowed wordlessly and kicked as hard a
s he could. The Englishman dodged, but in jumping away he slammed into one of the thick pillars that lined the walls. The Mameluke followed him and drove a shoulder into his midsection, only to be thrown back when his opponent drove his knee into the darker man’s face. Both stood a few steps apart, panting. Then Roustam-Raza charged and the two grappled.

  Victoire could not concentrate on her search; she deliberately turned her back on the battle so that she could think clearly. She made herself keep her mind on what she had to do. She found a large, wooden bucket. Very carefully she lifted it, weighing it in her hands to judge if it was heavy enough.

  Roustam-Raza hissed and uttered a guttural snarl as he clawed at the Englishman’s ears. Both men slammed into the straw that covered the floor, each trying to gain a death grip on the other.

  Turning, lifting the bucket high over her head, Victoire stood as near to the fray as she dared, waiting for her chance.

  A hand struck her leg, and fingers closed around her ankle. She tried to pull away, fighting the urge to scream. Screaming would do no good. Her anger, her fear would help her.

  And Victoire slammed the bucket down, hoping she would strike true.

  There was a grunt and half a word; one of the men fell back, his head striking the stone flooring with a solid thud.

  Roustam-Raza got to his feet and dusted himself quickly. “I didn’t expect you to be ... You are brave, Madame,” he said to Victoire when he had bent down once more and placed his hand on the Englishman’s neck. “There is a pulse. It is well he isn’t dead.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Victoire with feeling. The thought of actually killing someone made her nauseated.

  “He will not be unconscious long,” said Roustam-Raza, watching the Englishman through narrowed eyes. “I will not have long to wait.”

  “For what?” asked Victoire, apprehension returning twofold. “Why does it matter?”

  “There are any number of reasons,” said Roustam-Raza. “But first of them is that I wish to ask this man questions.” He looked away from her toward the open door. “It will probably be best if you conceal his horse. If he is planning to meet others, we do not want them to know he has been here.”

  “It is a precaution,” she agreed tentatively. “But surely no one else will come so late at night.”

  “We cannot be certain of that,” said Roustam-Raza remotely as he leaned down and seized one of the Englishman’s arms and lugged him upward. “If you will take the horse some little way and secure it—” He broke off. “There is a tall stand of reeds a short distance from here, away from the road.”

  “I think I know what you mean,” said Victoire, not sure she liked the sound of what he was telling her.

  “If his horse is left there, at least until we are prepared to depart ourselves, it would not alert any others to his presence.” He grunted as he swung the Englishman onto his shoulders. “Will you conceal his horse for me?”

  She suspected that this was as much a ploy for getting her away from the villa as an attempt to hide the horse, but she did not protest. “If you’re convinced it’s necessary.”

  “Oh, yes.” He started toward the door, made ungainly by his burden. “Return as soon as the horse is tethered. Or hobbled.”

  She shook her head, wanting to ask why he wanted her away from the villa but afraid of the answer she might receive. “As you wish,” she said, reaching for the reins of the Englishman’s horse.

  “Remember where you leave him; we will want him later.” He swung around once more and vanished around the corner of the villa, the Englishman slung over his shoulder like a huge sack of grain.

  Victoire did not remove the nosebag as she started to lead the horse from the stall. She patted the animal’s neck and made her way out into the night.

  * * *

  It was more than an hour later when she approached the villa once more. Walking on the ill-defined track in the dark had taken longer than she had anticipated, and her own fear had slowed her steps even more. Little as she wanted to admit it, she was afraid of discovery. And something else trouble her—what Roustam-Raza might do to the Englishman. Nothing she could tell herself quite convinced her that the Mameluke would not hurt their captive in order to gain needed information.

  As she neared the villa, she stopped. A high, undulating cry rent the night. It was a sound she could not—would not—believe was human. “It must be one of the water birds,” she said to herself, as if speaking aloud made her assertion more true. “They make very strange noises.”

  Ten minutes later she stood in the entrance to the garden, debating with herself if she ought to go inside. The last thing she wanted to do was offend Roustam-Raza’s strict sense of propriety, but standing here she felt woefully exposed. She hesitated, then called out softly. “I’ve come back.”

  There was no sound to indicate anyone was inside, let alone that she had been heard. She fidgeted as she waited, thinking it might be prudent to take cover in the overgrown garden.

  “Madame Vernet,” said Roustam-Raza, seeming to materialize in front of her. “I am pleased you have returned.” He bowed slightly to her, but kept a respectful distance.

  “I’ve hobbled the horse,” she said, watching as Roustam-Raza went to wash his hands in the brackish fountain. “I took his nosebag but left him food. There is water nearby.”

  “Sensible as always,” said Roustam-Raza with genuine approval.

  She could think of nothing else to say. Her questions stopped in her throat. She felt very tired now, as if all the activities of the day had at last caught up with her.

  Roustam-Raza sensed this in her. “The Englishman said that his associates are gone. They are seeking a place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers.” He turned toward her, shaking the water off of his hands. “I do not know where it is.” The last admission embarrassed him, and he could not meet her eyes.

  “The Treasure-chest of Robbers.” Victoire hesitated. “The caretaker spoke of the place, didn’t he.”

  “Yes,” said Roustam-Raza. He still did not meet her eyes. “I know that there are legends of the place where the cliffs are filled with the tombs of kings. There are those who claim that they steal from them.” He made a sign against the Evil Eye. “Tombs are unsafe for pious

  “And you don’t know where these cliffs are, in any case,” said Victoire, feeling defeat.

  “I know there are legends of them, but nothing more than that.” At last he turned toward her. “Every Egyptian has heard stories about the dead kings of long ago who lie in winding sheets of gold with gems where their eyes have been.”

  “But you don’t believe the stories,” she said, making a reasonable guess.

  “They may be true. I have seen mummies and golden scarabs. The rest—the kings and their treasure—may exist somewhere.” His tone of voice contradicted his words.

  Victoire came a few steps closer. “If you don’t know where this place is, why not ask the Englishman? If his associates are going there, he must know where they are bound.”

  Roustam-Raza spat. “We cannot ask him.”

  She stared at him, wishing the night were not so dark so that she could read his face. “Why not?”

  “He will not answer,” Roustam-Raza said flatly. “Whatever he knew of their destination died with him.”

  How simply he said it, she thought as she winced at what he told her. Victoire felt a deep, sudden chill. “How do you ...” Then words failed her and she lapsed into a silence that quieted her thoughts as well as her questions.

  Roustam-Raza stared at her. “Madame Vernet? Are you well?”

  She made herself answer him. “Why yes,” she answered; this was not enough, and she added, “It is quite late. I’m ... tired.”

  “And dawn comes quickly,” said Roustam-Raza. “We must be away from here within the hour.” He started back into the villa, then looked in he
r direction again. “It would be best if you remain outside.”

  “Yes,” she said. “It would be best.”

  KEMAL NUSAIR RECEIVED Murat and Madame Vernet with a show of courtesy and deference that would have shamed a bishop. The villa would have passed for a palace in France. It was two stories high, an unusual thing for the area, and covered with a pale yellow stucco. The gate of the courtyard was covered in delicate decorated brass, though Victoire noticed that the edge showed it to have a core of good, solid iron. Even more striking were the grass and flowering shrubs that filled the entranceway. In so dry a climate, they must have required immense efforts to cultivate. The merchant himself ushered them into the central room of his house and summoned the servants to serve coffee. If he was nonplused by the presence of a European woman, he did not reveal his feelings to her.

  “You’re very kind to receive us on such short notice,” said Murat as he took one of the three European chairs in the room.

  “Nonsense, nonsense,” said the merchant, beaming with pleasure. “It is the least I can do.” He regarded Victoire, and ventured an unexpected suggestion. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable, Madame, if my first wife and daughter joined us.”

  Victoire did her best to respond with aplomb. “That would be most welcome if you’re not inconvenienced, nor they.” Murat had told her that Nusair was more European in his taste and conduct than were most of the Egyptians she might meet, but his very French manners still surprised her. “I understood such things are not done,” she said.

  “That is not wholly correct,” said Nusair. “In this household, we do what we can to live in the world.” He clapped his hands again, and when the household slave appeared, he said, “Bring my first wife and oldest daughter to meet my guests. And none of your sullen looks, or you’ll be thrashed for it.”

  The slave bowed deeply and hurried away.