Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Instead, in battles so brilliant that they rival those of Alexander, our general drove two Austrian armies, each larger than our own, from Italy. This made him an even greater hero. And an even greater threat. They tried to leave Napoleon to rot with the honors they were forced to bestow on him. Ours is not a leader to sit idly by. He began to agitate, through powerful supporters in the city, for another command. For an expedition against the British.

  “The British Empire is the bank for all the monarchs. Without English money we could all live in peace. It is English gold that pays the Austrian grenadiers and Russian cuirassiers to fight us. Their navy is still too strong for us to cross the Channel and defeat them on their own island. Instead Napoleon argued that we must cut them off from the source of their wealth, the Orient. Hence he argued for an expedition against Egypt, and, he has hinted, perhaps to conquer many more lands, even all those that were Alexander’s.

  “The Directoire, seeing another chance for Napoleon to disgrace himself, found the idea appealing. Even more appealing, I suspect, was to have the general so far from Paris.”

  Victoire could see Murat more clearly now that the sun was rising on their left, and the long shadows reached away from them toward the riverbank. “What do they want, those men in Paris?”

  Murat actually grinned as he thought how to answer the question. Finally he spoke, his arms gesturing widely to emphasize each point.

  “It is not what they want, but what they have. The members of the Directoire control France. Those few men control all the wealth, all the legions of battalions, every ship in the most powerful nation of the world. For a man of ambition, it must be a heady drink.

  “But also this must be a disappointment. For they have no further to go. This, I suspect, drives them as much as any desire to spread Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité to the rest of Europe. And even so, to keep this power they have made themselves greater dictators than most kings. It must be a terrible fate, to have so much of what you desire that your only goal is not to lose it. But the people are not all fools. There has been a price. They say the loss of liberty was necessary to save us from the kings, but their control has not meant peace. The roads between the cities are not safe, the administrators corrupt, and the laws change daily. The people are tired of all this and search for a strong leader. If the Directors all ever agree on anything, it is to make sure no one arises that will be this leader. We are here with one man they rightly see as one who could lead all France, perhaps all Europe, and gloriously.”

  The sun was higher now and more of the crew was on deck. One of the hands—almost certainly a slave—brought food to the horses in stalls on the foredeck, and a new helmsman took over the tiller.

  “We’re in the way,” said Murat to Victoire, and gestured to a place halfway along the deck. “That’s safe enough. We won’t be in anyone’s path.”

  It was possible to sit on bales of cargo at this place, and Victoire availed herself of the lowest of them. “You implied that there are those in Paris who want to compromise Napoleon.”

  “Because there are,” said Murat, his frown quick but less tormented than the one he had worn when she had first spoken to him. “There is a whole country at stake. There are men who would undertake ... anything for such a prize.”

  “When you say there are men, you have someone in mind, don’t you?” said Victoire, hoping that Murat would tell her everything he knew.

  “Let us say that I have reason to be wary of certain ones.”

  “And of these men, who do you trust the least?” asked Victoire acutely.

  Murat laughed without humor. “Tallyrand. He’s more dangerous than all the others rolled together and doubled. He is a survivor, something any soldier admires. But not in the way he does it.

  “Charles Maurice Tallyrand-Perigord L’Eveque d’Autun, Prince de Bénévent, began life as one of the nobility. When he was but twenty-one, his father purchased for him the position as head of the largest abbaye in Rheims. He quickly became an important figure in the clergy and rose to become bishop of Autun. When the Revolution began, he was one of the chief delegates from the Second Estate to the Estates General. He is one of the few of that Estate to accept the civil constitution.

  “When the troubles began, he abandoned even his family and had himself appointed ambassador to London and then the United States in the Americas. He proved himself so valuable that each new government found it expedient to use his services. To retain his position he resigned his bishopric, which meant little, as the state had seized all church properties. When the Directoire no longer felt they could trust him, even that far away, he took up residence in Holland and then some of the German states. He returned just two years ago, now that Madame Guillotine is less thirsty for noble blood.

  “He is not even a member of the Directoire. Yet he is said to control two of those who are. Perhaps he thinks it is safer that way. You could say that Tallyrand has spent his life in service to the state. Others contend the state is more in service to him. Still, recently he has spoken out in favor of Napoleon. His efforts were vital in gaining the materials needed for this expedition. No one is sure why, but he made every effort to see us well equipped.”

  “But what you describe is an admirable servant,” said Victoire ironically. “Who serves without taking the highest offices.”

  “That’s his pose, certainly, and the reason that he has not fallen before now. Men like Tallyrand are like cats, always landing on their feet. I trust him, but only to be untrustworthy.” Murat was about to go on when Lirylah, in Greek clothing like Victoire’s, stepped onto the deck, shaking out her lustrous hair. Murat devoured her with his eyes until she turned toward him; he caught his lower lip in his teeth, averting his gaze.

  Victoire put her hand on his arm. “She knows, Murat.”

  “Then let that be enough,” he said brusquely.

  But Victoire shook her head. “Knowing isn’t enough. Unless she hears you say it, she will always wonder.”

  Murat shook his arm free. “We’d better prepare to land at Abydos,” he said, and strode away from her.

  * * *

  Abydos was two days behind them, and the guides they had hired were starting to hint about higher fees as they neared Hiw. Their camp that night was close to the Nile—close enough to make Roustam-Raza mutter about crocodiles and rats and for Victoire to remember all of Larrey’s warnings about animalcules making the water dangerous to drink or wash in.

  “I spoke to the merchants who passed us before sunset,” said Roustam-Raza as he prepared their campfire. “They said that the English are ahead of us still, bound invariably upriver.”

  “And do they know where they’re going?” asked Murat, his temper shorter than usual. “Be damned to them.”

  The Mameluke warrior studiously went about his task, glancing toward the tent where Victoire and Lirylah were cutting the goat meat he had bought. When he was certain he could speak with respect he said, “If we press hard tomorrow, we can close the gap between us. If you wish, we will dispense with the guides.”

  “You don’t trust them, do you?” said Murat, looking over the campsite for the dozenth time. “You think we should be rid of them.”

  “So do you,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “I ...” Murat was watching Lirylah and it took him a short while to resume his thought. “I suppose it would be wise. We don’t want to lose the English, and with those guides ...”

  “The English may turn at Hiw and go south,” said Roustam-Raza. “One must cross the desert, but it saves many leagues. The guides will not cross the desert without much more money.”

  Reluctantly Murat nodded, then called out, “Madame Vernet, will you and Mademoiselle Nusair come here, please? It appears we need expert advice.” He moved stiffly, keeping the fire between him and Lirylah.

  “Yes?” said Victoire as if she were unaware of the tension. �
��What will we have to do?”

  “I’m concerned about our progress. This insidious heat has slowed us down and we have not come as far as I might wish,” said Murat, sounding more like a priest speaking to an obdurate sinner than a man seeking information. “Roustam-Raza informs me that the English may not follow the river. Is there another route leading to the south that we can follow?”

  Lirylah answered breathlessly. “There is a short caravan route, from Hiw to Darb el-Bakirat, and from there to Medinet Habu, across the river from Thebes. There are temples there on the west bank, or so my tutor said.”

  “I see,” said Murat in the same forbidding tone.

  “We will have to travel fast and early, or the heat will slow us more, no matter how many leagues we save.” Roustam-Raza blew the fire into greater brightness. “If the English go that way, they will have to be careful. As we must, as well.”

  Murat made an impatient gesture. “If I had some idea where this Treasure-chest of Robbers is, we could decide if it is worth crossing the desert, no matter what the English do.” He met Lirylah’s eyes, and for once could not turn away.

  She moistened her lips before she could speak. “My tutor said it was near Medinet Habu, a little to the north and east, I think.” She paused. “I know he crossed the desert to get there.”

  Murat scowled. “And helped himself to the treasure, no doubt.” He started to pace, more than zeal pent up in him. As suddenly as he had begun, he stopped. “It could be very difficult. We would have to ride like troopers, and you are not ...”

  Victoire answered for them. “We are not delicate, silly playthings, Murat. We are women bent on our task.” She indicated the fire. “We will take care of putting the meal together and you and Roustam-Raza can make whatever provisions are necessary for us to cross the desert. He can also,” she added as an afterthought, “pay off the guides and dismiss them. I do not think it would be sensible to keep them with us any longer.”

  “Ah,” said Murat, his fascination with Lirylah broken for the moment. “You are very clever, Madame Vernet.”

  “I like to think I haven’t wasted my wits completely,” she answered with asperity. “And,” she added pointedly, “I like to think the same of you.”

  Murat had no answer for her; he motioned to Roustam-Raza. “Let us attend to the guides.”

  Victoire watched the two men move away from the fire. “You know,” she said to Lirylah, “for an intelligent fellow, Murat can be infuriatingly dense.”

  Lirylah frowned at this. “I don’t understand what you say.”

  “I suspect you do,” said Victoire, turning to her and smiling ruefully. “You are ... you are put at a disadvantage.”

  “He will never speak,” said Lirylah sadly.

  Victoire was silent for a short while and then spoke her thoughts. “For his sake, if not yours, I hope you are wrong.”

  * * *

  Through the heat of the day they sheltered in tents and watched the horses consume most of their water.

  “We will have to reach Darb el-Bakirat by nightfall. We haven’t enough water for tomorrow,” said Victoire to Roustam-Raza.

  “We will ride into the night,” said the Mameluke. Victoire looked at him uneasily. “Won’t we risk getting lost?”

  “Yes, but there are signs to read if one has the eyes. And the river is always on our left.” His face was stoic, but Victoire was beginning to understand the fierce Mameluke and she knew he was worried.

  “As soon as we can, we must ride.” She hesitated. “I think that the dun mare is becoming sand-lame.”

  “Yes. I think so, too,” said Roustam-Raza. “It is unfortunate.”

  “But what are we to do?” asked Victoire reasonably.

  “Ride her until she drops,” said Roustam-Raza. “We cannot have any horse carrying a double load any longer than absolutely necessary. If we are short of water when she dies, we will drink her blood.”

  Victoire did her best not to show any revulsion at this, but there was enough horror in her eyes for the Mameluke to know how much she was repelled by what he said. “I’m sorry,” she made herself tell him. “My reason tells me you are correct but I have not encountered such ... hardship before, and I am distressed.”

  “As many others are,” said Roustam-Raza. “It is not easy to stay alive in the desert.”

  “No, it’s not,” said Victoire. She looked where Lirylah lay asleep; not far beyond Murat sat near the horses, watching the Egyptian girl with such naked longing that Victoire turned away as if she had intruded on some great intimacy.

  * * *

  At Darb el-Bakirat there were camels as well as horses, and Roustam-Raza purchased four of the ungainly beasts, insisting that they were the better choice for the remainder of their journey. Murat was intrigued with the camels, but Victoire regarded them askance.

  “Guardian angels,” she said as Roustam-Raza led the animals toward them. “They stink.”

  “And they spit, too,” said Murat. “But they’ll get us over the desert a deal more handily than the horses will.”

  Lirylah, who had been uncertain about horses, watched the camels with dismay. “I do not know how—”

  “Roustam-Raza will teach us,” said Murat before she could go on. “And you will ride beside me. I will watch after you.”

  Victoire was surprised to hear this, and at once apprehensive and relieved. She went at once to Roustam-Raza and said heartily, “Well, you might as well show me how to go about it. How do you get them to kneel?”

  An hour later they were all mounted on their camels, following Roustam-Raza around the perimeter of Darb el-Bakirat.

  “This is worse than a sloop in a storm,” observed Murat, laughing in spite of his discomfort. “We leave tomorrow before dawn. If that will not interfere with your prayers, Roustam-Raza.”

  “I will pray as I have, pausing in our travels,” warned Roustam-Raza in a steady tone. “You will not have to be concerned.”

  “We haven’t been, so far,” said Murat. “But we haven’t had to contend with camels before.” He flashed his smile at Lirylah, and for once did not look away when she returned it.

  Somewhat later they dismounted from their practice and left the camels in Roustam-Raza’s care while they set about making ready for their midday rest.

  Murat found an excuse to take Victoire aside. “Perhaps you’re right, Madame Vernet.”

  “About what?” she asked, already guessing the answer.

  “I have no right to speak to her, but ... but I may never again have the opportunity. I want to tell her. I want her to hear me say the words to her. You’re right about that. And I want to hear her say the words to me.” He spread his hands, palms down, and looked at them as if he had never seen them before. “If she is upset, will you tend to her? As a favor to me?”

  “I would do it no matter what the case,” agreed Victoire at once. “There is no favor, Murat.”

  He nodded, making it a bow. “I am maladroit, Madame. Forgive me.”

  She regarded him with concern. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “I pray you are right,” he said with a twitch of a smile.

  * * *

  “There,” said Lirylah, hanging onto the saddle of her camel. She was exhausted and exultant. “That wadi, that is the one. It has the track my tutor described.”

  The trek from Darb el-Bakirat to Medinet Habu had gone much more quickly than their ride from Hiw to Darb el-Bakirat. The camels had moved steadily over the wastes, less hampered by the heat than the four persons riding them. They covered the distance in a single day, and by the middle of the next morning their searches had brought them past the half-buried monuments to this long, deep canyon leading back into the desert plateaus.

  “You’re certain?” asked Murat, who rode beside her. He was more at his ease now, and more energetic. “
There are other ravines—”

  “No, this is the one,” she said, her accent growing much stronger with excitement. “He told me about the track and the two ... those.” She pointed. “What do you call them?”

  “Outcroppings,” said Victoire.

  “Guardians,” corrected Roustam-Raza.

  Murat paid no heed. “You’re certain?” he asked again.

  “This is the wadi.” She tapped her camel and set the beast moving, the others coming after her.

  Roustam-Raza fell to the rear, remarking to Victoire as he did, “I have seen your general speaking with the merchant’s daughter. They paid little attention to anything else. We do not know where these English are. We don’t want them coming upon us unaware.”

  “I’d say not,” agreed Victoire.

  He glanced once toward Murat and Lirylah. “This thing, it is dangerous.”

  “Our quest or their affections?” asked Victoire, who was in no mood to observe the convoluted social forms demanded.

  Roustam-Raza made the sign to ward off the Evil Eye. “Both,” he said as he loosened his scimitar in its scabbard.

  Ahead of them Murat drew in his camel and pointed down. “Fresh tracks,” he called to the others. “Unshod asses, I’d speculate. And a camel.”

  “The English?” asked Victoire, moving her camel closer to him.

  Murat chuckled. “I hope so. It wouldn’t do to surprise anyone else.” With that, he gave himself to the task of following the tracks in the glaring dust.

  AFTERNOON SHADOWS CAST much of the floor of the valley into darkness. It was becoming difficult to see the creases and irregularities in the face of the canyon walls.