Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Lirylah came after her, moving very cautiously, her unfamiliar Greek clothes proving cumbersome to her. She did her best to keep up with Victoire and Murat as they headed around the rock to the place where Hazlett had been.

  As they went, Murat busied himself wrapping his short vest around a stout wooden staff, securing it with tight leather thongs. “The flint and steel are in my wallet,” he said to Victoire. “And my notebook is there.”

  “If you are certain you want to sacrifice it,” said Victoire uncertainly.

  “Of course I don’t want to sacrifice it,” said Murat gruffly. “All the more reason for doing it quickly. I don’t want to stumble about in the dark, either.”

  Victoire did as he instructed her, and sighed with relief as the first sparks took the three folded pages, and then began to burn the cloth. They had a torch, and the night no longer held them in its inky palm.

  Gregson was still lying, curled around the pistol that had killed him. There was little blood to be seen, for most of it had soaked deep into the sand.

  The picks were still lying on the ground, and Murat handed the torch to Victoire as he picked up the nearest. “The entry has to be right in this area,” he said, moving toward the face of the cliff. “Bring the torch and hold it for me.”

  “Certainly,” said Victoire, keeping pace with him. After several minutes of searching, Murat uttered an exclamation of surprise and stepped closer to the cliff. “By Saint Louis!” He stretched out, and in the next moment disappeared into what had appeared to be nothing more than a narrow crevice.

  “Murat!” cried Lirylah.

  Victoire was startled, but she held the torch steady. She knew it would serve no purpose to upbraid Lirylah for her distress, and so she concentrated on keeping the light placed for Murat, to ease his return.

  In little more than a minute or two, Murat stepped into the light once again. “There is a great stone door within that cave. It’s covered with hieroglyphics and murals, and there are several skeletons on the floor there. And”—he held up the scepter—“this.”

  This time it was more difficult for Victoire to maintain her hold on the torch. She blinked back tears as she stared at the flail and then looked at Murat. “My good friend,” she said with feeling. “You’ve saved him.”

  Murat was fascinated with the flail. “An ancient Egyptian king held this scepter. He wielded it to show his authority.” He gave Victoire a quizzical look. “We’ve saved who?”

  She was astonished. “Why, my husband, of course,” she said, and even as she spoke the words, she wondered if it were true.

  He lowered the scepter; being solid gold, it was very heavy and he was unused to its heft. “When we return this, you mean,” he said, doubt coloring his words.

  “I suppose so,” said Victoire. And then she shook her head. “If we can show that this was not a ploy to return the scepter. Berthier might think I have possessed it all along—he has certainly implied that. I would not put it past him to accuse me of treachery for coming with you, and you my dupe instead of my friend.”

  “I would testify otherwise,” said Murat.

  “And Berthier would compromise our reputations,” said Victoire with certainty. “Oh, gracious.” She looked over at Lirylah. “I can’t explain it all to you. I’ll try to ...”

  Murat weighed the scepter in his hand. “You couldn’t have carried something this heavy without my knowing about it, and without Roustam-Raza knowing,” said Murat. He held out the scepter to Victoire. “Have a care,” he warned her as her hand closed around, the haft of it.

  He was right: the scepter was heavy. Victoire took the weight and tightened her arm and shoulder. “Yes, you would both know if I had brought this with us.” She looked down at Gregson. “No wonder he wanted to sell it. So much gold is very tempting.”

  “To you, Madame Vernet?” asked Lirylah, and she was upset when Murat answered the challenge.

  “Not to Madame Vernet,” Murat told her sharply. “She is loyal and steadfast, as a good wife must be, and she is protecting the welfare of her husband. It would take more than a gold scepter to turn her head.” He moved a little closer to Lirylah. “And you must not say such things where Frenchmen can hear you, little dove, for rumors travel like grassfire through regiments, and she would be disgraced for no reason. Give me your word that you will not speak of this with anyone but Madame Vernet and me.”

  She was astonished, and her eyes widened. “I would never ...” she began, then faltered. “She has nothing to fear from me.”

  “I knew she would not,” said Murat, then gave Victoire his attention again. “We must have a strategy before we get back. That’s unquestionably sure.”

  “A strategy?” said Victoire, troubled at the canny light in Murat’s brown eyes. “Why—” She interrupted herself before he could speak. “Berthier. It’s always Berthier.”

  “And Napoleon,” said Murat. He held out his hand for the scepter. “Come, Madame Vernet; this man can rest with all the others who have ventured against that dead Egyptian king.” He placed the scepter in his belt as if it were a large dagger, then crossed himself before bending over to take Gregson’s arms. “Give Lirylah the torch, and let’s get to work. We can’t leave him out here for the vultures.”

  Much as she disliked the notion of entering the cave that served as a tomb, Victoire did not complain. She blessed herself, then reached down for Gregson’s feet, lifting him when Murat gave the count.

  This small procession followed the same path that the Egyptian priests had taken when they had hidden their dead king away, more than three thousand years before.

  And generations of robbers since had profaned their devotion.

  * * *

  Roustam-Raza found them the next morning shortly after the sun had risen. Murat, Victoire, and Lirylah had already ridden most of the way to the mouth of the canyon and were approaching the first of a string of little towns lying along this sinuous bend in the Nile.

  “Did you learn anything?” asked Murat once he had given a partial account of their doings the previous night.

  “Do you mean, did I find the ones who were guides to the Englishmen, yes I did. It was not difficult.” He beamed at Murat and Victoire. “You would be most pleased to know what I have discovered.”

  “No doubt,” said Victoire, who was still tired and a little testy.

  “I asked how it was that the English could come this far without being stopped, for we are to fight against the English and support the French. I fear that the answer is going to displease you,” said Roustam-Raza.

  “And that was?” asked Murat, finding the weight of the scepter a burden in many ways. “What did they say?”

  “They were given the right to come this way. They carried an official pass issued by the Pasha himself in Cairo.” This announcement was made with great determination, and brought the kind of stares that Roustam-Raza hoped it would. “They were not here clandestinely.”

  “The Pasha gave them official passes,” said Murat, his brow furrowing as he turned this over in his mind, each new thought more unpleasant than the last.

  A man leading a dozen white asses yelled at them for blocking the roadway, and raised as much dust as possible as he went by.

  Roustam-Raza answered him pithily, and with words that Victoire did not know. He then said to Murat, “They are an ill thing, these passes.”

  “Yes, they are,” said Murat. He glanced at Victoire. “If what the guide says is veracious, this concerns more than your husband, Madame Vernet.”

  “Oh, it is true enough,” said Roustam-Raza, his face bright with smiles. “I made him place his hand on the Quran. He will surely be tormented by Shaitan when he dies if he does not speak the truth when his hand is on the Quran.” There was such quiet confidence in him that Victoire could not keep herself from speaking, although she dreaded that he might ha
ve treated the guides as he treated the man at the villa.

  “How is it that you’re convinced? What if the guides had already sworn on the Quran not to reveal the truth to you or anyone?”

  Moral quandaries were not in Roustam-Raza’s mental vocabulary. He cocked his head to the side, studying Victoire as he answered, “Because they knew I would cut their tongues out, and they did not wish their last words to be lies.”

  She had been prepared for a shock, but this bald admission left Victoire with the taste of bile at the back of her mouth. She no longer wondered if he were capable of such acts; she hoped she would not let her own repugnance color the burgeoning respect she felt for the Mameluke. Knowing she had to say something, she said, “Then you’re satisfied that ... that it’s true.”

  “Before Allah Himself, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza, smiling.

  “WE’RE AT GREATER risk going down the Nile on a dhow,” said Victoire at her most reasonable as she leaned on the rail at the prow and let the occasional bits of river spray cool her.

  “Yes, we are,” agreed Murat, “but it’s faster than we can go on land. And you and Lirylah are exhausted.” In his colorful Greek disguise he fit into his surroundings far better than the very fair Victoire did. “Don’t deny it, Madame Vernet. I know what to look for.”

  Victoire gave him a resigned look. “Well, since you are convinced, I suppose I must be persuaded.” She straightened up. “Still, I don’t like landing at night. If the river is fast, traveling day and night, as we did coming upstream, would be best.”

  “Try to convince the captain of this craft, if you can. I have already. So has Roustam-Raza. But the fellow is a very strict Muslim and he will not have unmarried women sleeping on his boat at night.” He rubbed at his neck. “I hope that we have not lost that Englishman. I want to catch him by the heels before he reaches the delta.” He shook his head. “Here it is a few days to Christmas and this place is an oven.”

  “They say there is snow in the mountains,” Victoire remarked. Her thoughts were as distracted as Murat’s. “If we can catch this Hazlett, do you think that his testimony would be sufficient to stop Berthier from destroying my husband’s career?”

  “I don’t know,” said Murat bluntly. “I wish I did. But we don’t know what Hazlett will tell us, assuming we catch him and he ventures to tell us anything.” He touched his belt, where the scepter hung concealed in a heavy, shapeless scabbard. “He won’t like learning about this.”

  “No, he won’t,” said Victoire. She had been despondent for the last day, and nothing she could do would shake her out of it. Very deliberately she changed the subject. “Speaking of impossible decisions, have you worked out what you wish to do about Lirylah?”

  “What I wish to do and what I shall probably have to do are two different things, Madame Vernet.” He glanced back along the deck of the dhow to where Lirylah, completely swathed in Greek linen, sat in the shelter of two enormous barrels of water. “But Napoleon would not be pleased if one of his generals took an Egyptian wife. He doesn’t mind the mistresses, but he won’t tolerate such marriages.” He lowered his eyes. “And I will not seduce a virtuous girl. I have my limits.”

  “Then you will return her to her father and thank them both politely?” she asked, not completely believing him.

  “As you rely on my support before Berthier, so I rely on your support before Nusair. I will not compromise that woman. As harsh as we French are on those girls of good quality who stray, the Muslims are five times as severe. She deserves better than that from me.” His expression softened. “She is ten times the treasure to me that this scepter is, and I will never be permitted to have her.”

  “I’m sorry, Murat,” said Victoire softly.

  “So am I.” He coughed delicately. “This Hazlett. When we land this evening, Roustam-Raza and I will scour the markets and the coffeehouses to find if he has been here. A few bribes and some of Roustam-Raza’s fiercest looks ought to tell us what we want to know. And that will leave a little time for you and Lirylah to refresh yourselves.”

  Victoire stretched. “God on the Cross, I need a bath,” she said at once. “My clothes are going to be rags by the time we return to Cairo. Two good new muslin dresses, and already they are frayed and torn. And my skin—well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “Fair women do poorly in the desert,” said Murat.

  “Yes, and all clothes,” said Victoire, indicating the state of the big, loose Greek shirt Murat wore.

  “True enough,” said Murat, for once sounding philosophical.

  “They’ll last as far as Cairo, I suppose.” Victoire made an uneasy wave of her hand. “Perhaps by then this whole puzzle will be solved and all we will have to contend with is Berthier.”

  Murat’s face grew cynical. “Perhaps.”

  * * *

  They were at the outskirts of the village Samalut on the west bank of the Nile, in a green, fertile swath of land of wheat fields and date palms. Murat’s little company made camp in the area the village elders gave them permission to use, and then, while Victoire and Lirylah took advantage of the shallow well and the sheltered location to bathe, Murat and Roustam-Raza marched off to the village to gather what information they could concerning the present whereabouts of Hazlett.

  “I have longed for this,” said Lirylah as she modestly turned aside, pulling her Greek clothing open. “The sand is everywhere.”

  “Truly,” said Victoire, examining the lamentable state of her corset as she got out of her riding habit; it had faded from a russet shade to an uneven ruddy yellow. Her other habit was even worse. She shook her head. “I won’t be able to mend this; I’ll have to throw it away as soon as we return to camp.” She frowned, remembering that she had only two other corsets with her. It was time to send word to her cousin in France to procure more for her if she had to remain in Egypt much longer. If the merchant captains were risking the passage yet.

  “What troubles you, Madame?” asked Lirylah as she reached for the bucket of water set on the ground between them, next to the ancient, stone-paved well. They were screened from any prying eyes by hanging curtains of canvas. More private than elegant, their hidden bath was secluded enough that the women were not afraid to converse while they washed.

  “Oh, too many things. I am out of sorts today, Lirylah. I see only obstacles around us, and I am chagrined.” She touched her corset. “This is just another such example.”

  Lirylah was curious about the garment. “Why do you wear such a thing?” she asked.

  “Why, indeed,” said Victoire, sounding world-weary. “Because it is what women of quality do, Lirylah. It is the fashion, and it is what those of good tone must do to appear acceptable.” She was bare to the waist now, and set to washing her arms and chest. “The corsets in my mother’s day were much more formidable—longer and tighter. These are much more comfortable.” She felt the water slide down her lifted arm with almost sinful pleasure.

  “So you must wear this thing, though no one can see it.” Lirylah stared at it.

  “No one but my maid—if I had one—and my husband. And my dressmaker, of course.” She worked on the other arm, and began to feel some of the pall of irritation begin to lift.

  “Yet it is required you wear it,” Lirylah persisted.

  “Yes. My clothes wouldn’t fit properly if I didn’t.” She worked her way out of her skirt and her stockings. She felt grit around her waist and shook her head.

  “It is the ruling of your Imam?” asked Lirylah, who was now quite nude and glistening with water.

  Victoire required a little time to think her question through. “No, we have no Imams to tell us how to dress. We have dressmakers who set the fashion, and they make clothes for the most dashing noblewomen in Paris. All the world follows where they lead.”

  “I see,” said Lirylah, who clearly did not. “How strange, to entrust
the virtue of women to a dressmaker.”

  “I don’t think virtue is their concern—fashion is.” Victoire laughed a little at her own humor, and was pleased when Lirylah joined in, willing to be amused without knowing why.

  They were still laughing a bit when the widest canvas wall came down, and the ruddy figure of Hazlett emerged from the shadows of the date palms.

  Lirylah shrieked and reached for her clothes to cover her head; Victoire grabbed her drying sheet and drew it around her, tucking the corner in under her arm. In the warm afternoon she felt very cold.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” said Hazlett in dreadful French. “Since you’ve been trying so hard to find me, I thought I’d spare you further inconvenience and present myself.” His bow was robbed of any politeness by the pistol he carried. He signalled, and three Egyptian men came forward to join him.

  “Let’s put an end to this game, shall we?”

  “I do not know to what game you refer,” said Victoire, amazed that she could sound so very cool when she was so frightened.

  “You’ve been following me.” Hazlett was not going to dispute it. “There’s no point in denying it. My men have seen you on the river since I started south.”

  Then he did not know about the Treasure-chest of Robbers, thought Victoire with the first stirrings of hope. “Why do you think this, Englishman?”

  Lirylah was whimpering.

  Hazlett ignored her, though one of the Egyptians grinned and nudged his neighbor. “You were asking for me at the inn, just before I went aboard the felucca. The innkeeper came to warn me that Greeks Who were not Greeks had been searching for me. I had my men watch on the river, to see if your captain seemed to follow the craft I was on. I’m certain you know that it was.”

  “You are English, monsieur,” said Victoire. “England and France are at war. You cannot blame us for trying to discover what an enemy of our country is doing here in Egypt.”