Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“Nothing you can do,” he answered distantly.

  Victoire did not bristle at the rebuke. “I wish I could say something for consolation, Joachim.”

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “You can’t.”

  She wanted to remain with him, but the look in his brown eyes was cold and hard as rock. She moved a little distance away, noticing for the first time how very sore she felt all over.

  Roustam-Raza was waiting for her now that he had returned from the village. “It is arranged,” he said to Victoire. “Shall I tell Murat?”

  “I don’t know,” said Victoire seriously. “Perhaps later, when he is not so filled with pain.”

  “That may be some time,” said Roustam-Raza. “To feel such passion for one woman,” he added. “It isn’t the way of men to make such idols of women.”

  “It’s the way of this man,” corrected Victoire thoughtfully. “And I feel for him because of it.”

  Roustam-Raza shook his head. “There is food. We have to leave soon. Come and eat.”

  “Yes,” agreed Victoire, knowing how sensible the suggestion was. “Find something we can carry downriver with us. Murat will not eat now, but later we must.”

  As he guided Victoire toward the open hut where the farmer had food waiting, Roustam-Raza said, “For a woman, she was very brave. Allah does not require much of women, but that they serve men and have many sons. But this woman, she was very brave.”

  Victoire realized that this was a rare encomium, and did not answer as sharply as she would had someone other than Roustam-Raza spoken them. “She was a brave woman. There are many Frenchwomen who would not have shown her courage had they been in her place.”

  They had reached the hut, and the farmer bowed before hurrying off to tend his goats. Two of his wives brought out trays of broiled chopped goat with onions, allspice, cinnamon, and pepper. Flat loaves of bread were offered along with the meat, and Victoire made herself eat a good portion, expressing her thanks with every bite. When she was through, she drank two cups of the hot, sweet tea and watched as the farmer’s two wives finished up the leftovers.

  “Is that what they eat? What their husband and guests leave behind?” she asked Roustam-Raza as they made their way back toward the river, a sack of bread and sweetmeats slung over his shoulder.

  Roustam-Raza looked down at her. “Of course,” he said, as if that should be obvious to everyone.

  “How very shortsighted,” said Victoire. Her shoulders still hurt and she was very tired. For once she was looking forward to the afternoon nap that was part of life in Egypt.

  “Murat is not himself,” said Roustam-Raza as they neared the place they had left the bereaved Frenchman.

  “And he will not be for some time, I fear,” said Victoire. She shook her head. “It would have been easier if she had been his mistress. Not that he would have made her his mistress, you understand,” she added quickly, “but if it had been possible, he would not be left with the emptiness of what they did not have.”

  Roustam-Raza shook his head in bafflement. “There are other women. Even Christians can have other women, can’t they?”

  “Yes,” said Victoire. “But it isn’t his faith that’s injured—it is his heart.” She looked ahead and saw that Murat had not moved; he still stood staring out over the river, his eyes fixed on a distant place.

  THE DHOW WAS carrying wood from far up the Nile, beyond the limits of French exploration inland, and it made slower progress down the Nile than it would have with a lighter load. Murat had chosen it, claiming that he trusted the captain more than the others he had interviewed. With the scepter aboard, he wanted to be confident of the crew. Ordinarily he would fret at such a pace, but on this part of the voyage he made no complaint.

  Victoire, watching him standing by the curve of the huge lateen sail, suspected he needed time to himself, to mourn Lirylah. She did not press him to confide in her, but made every effort to remain near at hand, in case he should wish to unburden himself.

  She wrote to Vernet the first evening they were on the river.

  For, my dearest husband, I have never seen Murat in so bleak a state. He has endured disappointment and hardship with cheerful courage. In all our chasing and seeking, he has been the best comrade anyone could want. But the loss of that one girl—a girl he would not have been permitted to have as his own—has wounded him as no enemy fire could do. He does not even care how he looks, still wearing the same torn tunic he had on that night.

  Yet, for all the sympathy I have for his grief, I am also vexed with him, for in killing Hazlett, he has destroyed a witness who could have been most beneficial to you. Hazlett would have provided the information that would have exonerated you completely. I fear that without the testimony of that Englishman, it will be a very difficult matter to discover who in the government has betrayed Napoleon, and you along with him. Roustam-Raza, who does not understand our way of laws, has suggested that the tongues be cut out of those who lie and we would have the truth soon enough. I cannot entirely object to his recommendation.

  I ask again that you forgive my tardiness in writing to you, but the exigencies of this journey have made it impossible for me to entrust any correspondence to a responsible courier. I estimate that we should be back in camp before two weeks are gone; very likely less, barring any unforeseen developments. Now that we are coming close to Memphis, I await the chance to find a French courier once again who can bring me news of you. Until I started this letter, I could not admit how much I’ve missed you. Now that the words are before me, I long for you as a soldier with an empty sleeve must long for his arm. I have been at pains to think only kindly, happy thoughts of you, my love, to comfort me as we pursued the scepter. Now that we have it in hand, I can only trust that justice will be served, with or without Hazlett, and that we will be reunited before Easter.

  Murat tells me that he does not regret killing Hazlett and his men; he would do it again a dozen times over and it would not avenge Lirylah. Poor man, to know his love only in her absence. I fear he will never again allow himself to trust to his emotions. Already he talks about making only a political marriage, one where he cannot be hurt.

  I will write again soon, or add to this, as it happens.

  On the sixth day they made Memphis, and Victoire handed the courier there a letter that had grown to fifteen crossed pages. At the French headquarters, two Carabinier captains waited for their general, the younger complaining that they had been there since before Christmas, and now, with Epiphany at hand, they were late joining the rest of the troop.

  “Where are we bound?” asked Murat when his men presented themselves. He made no apology or explanation for his appearance, either his Greek clothing and haircut, or his remoteness.

  “The army is going to Syria,” said the older captain. “There are plans to move along the coast until we control all the land. Already our scouts have reached to the city of Acre. Berthier says it was the ancient key to all the Holy Lands. The desert between is full of enemies. You are to take your men and go south, joining with Kleber. There are Mamelukes still to be brought to heel.” He noticed Roustam-Raza then and looked aside.

  “If they are in need of learning a lesson, so be it,” said Murat in the same distant way. “I relish the task.”

  The younger stared at him. “You ... you might want to ... find a fresh uniform, sir.”

  Murat looked down at his clothes, at the bloodstains that still marred the linen tunic he wore. “I suppose so.” He straightened up. “I’ll need a valet, if you can arrange for one. If not, then any steward you can spare will do.” He looked around the villa the French had commandeered as their own. “I will want these clothes returned to me.” He fingered his chin. “And I suppose I must have a barber. Arrange it.” He was about to leave the withdrawing room when he noticed Victoire standing with Roustam-Raza at the far side of the chamber. “Madame,” he sai
d to her with a hint of a bow.

  “General Murat,” she replied, dropping him a curtsy and feeling very shabby in her worn hunting habit.

  Reluctantly Murat came across the room to her, his face unreadable. “You were most diligent in our quest, and I have been a churl to you. You must accept my apology.”

  “Certainly,” she said, more baffled than ever.

  “I will have to file a dispatch on our activities. You may rest assured that you will receive credit for your intrepid devotion to duty and your husband.” He sounded like a stranger, and she watched him more closely. “I am in your debt, Madame, however awkwardly I may discharge the obligation. Our cause would not have succeeded without you; indeed, there is every reason to suppose that we might not have lived to return. You may believe me at any time your most obedient servant.” He took her hand and bowed over it in form.

  He’s saving my reputation, thought Victoire as she accepted this gesture with what grace she could muster. He is putting an end to gossip before it starts. “I am most highly complimented, Murat,” she said, wishing she could speak frankly to him, offering the consolation of their friendship instead of this stilted good manners.

  “I have given Roustam-Raza the thing we are returning to Napoleon, and I must rely on your devotion still further, to deliver it once again to Napoleon, or failing that, to Berthier. An account of how we came to reclaim it will be included in my morning dispatch.” He looked at her, and for a few seconds tears stood in his eyes. “I have known many fine men who were less stalwart comrades-at-arms than you have been, Madame Vernet. Were you a man, you would surely have been elected an officer by now.” His face remained impassive, but his eyes showed greater pain. “I must ask another favor, one I have no right to ask.”

  Victoire nodded. “I will send the message, Murat. It had better come from me in any case, I should think,” she said, dreading what she would have to say to Kemal Nusair. “He would want to know ...” She lost track of what she was saying. “Murat, you could not have anticipated,” she said to him. “We knew there was a risk, but we could not anticipate ...”

  “I ought to have anticipated. I should have been better prepared. We knew the marine guard was butchered; the danger was clear. If one of us had to die, why, in the name of everything holy, did it have to be her?” His voice was very low, so that his men on the other side of the room could not hear him. He stared at her, his features like a skull. “I should not have permitted her to come with us.”

  “She wished to come, Murat,” said Victoire as gently as she could, and motioned to Roustam-Raza to distract the two captains on the other side of the room. “You didn’t force her, and she knew that it might be dangerous to be with you; there is no reason for you to castigate yourself.”

  “Isn’t there?” He shook his head. “I have tried to convince myself that it was only a fancy of mine, attaching myself to an Egyptian girl. I tell myself it is like the girls who captivated me while I was a seminarian, testing my faith with their loveliness. But it was not my vanity or my lust she touched; she touched my soul.” He stared down at his worn, dusty boots. “How can I continue to live when she is dead?”

  “She would not return to life if you died,” said Victoire as gently as she could. “She would not wish you to make yourself less to no purpose.”

  “But would it be to no purpose?” He shook his head. “Don’t bother to answer. I ask myself every hour and there is no answer.”

  “Then consider this, Murat,” Victoire said more sternly. “An officer leading men into battle while he is seeking death is more dangerous to them than a field of enemy forces. You may not wish to live, but I suspect most of your men do.”

  He turned away from her as if she had slapped him, then looked back.

  “You’re right.” He sighed, and briefly seemed himself again. “I wish I were going with you to return the scepter. I know that’s foolish—it is safe with you and Roustam-Raza now that we are back in French territory. Yet I sense that something will be severed when you leave, and I regret that.”

  “It need not be severed on my account,” said Victoire very carefully.

  “Nor on mine,” he replied, not meeting her eyes.

  “Then I will look forward to that time when we meet again, Murat,” she said, giving the appearance of good cheer. “And I will pray for your safety and swift return.”

  His desolate brown eyes met her blue ones. “I wish I could pray. But the words stick in my throat.”

  “Then I will do it for you,” she said. “It may be unfashionable, but you know in what regard I hold fashion.” She fingered the frayed lapel of her habit.

  He attempted a smile and managed it a little better than before. “With such an ensemble. Yes, I surely do.” He bowed once more, this time less perfectly, and stepped back. “I meant it, Victoire. Little though I may show it, I am in your debt.”

  * * *

  “We will reach Cairo by sunset, if the wind does not pick up,” said Roustam-Raza with satisfaction as he studied the banks of the Nile, his eyes shaded against the morning sun. Since they had cast off three hours ago he had been pointing out landmarks that were unfamiliar to Victoire. “Then it is a simple matter to present the ... object to Berthier. He will have to reexamine the case against your husband.” He came and stood next to Victoire. “He will do that, won’t he?”

  “I hope so,” said Victoire, who was feeling more tired than she wanted to admit. Now that they were almost finished with their task, she had to fight off an unfamiliar lethargy that robbed her of purpose.

  “There can be no doubt,” said Roustam-Raza, one hand going to the hilt of his scimitar. “You have returned the scepter, they will return your husband with honor.”

  In spite of her own lowering mood, Victoire smiled at Roustam-Raza’s naive assumption. “If the scepter is sufficient to convince them that my husband had no part in the death of the marine guard and was not the thief, then his honor will be restored. If Berthier permits it.” She stretched, finding the morning sun burdensome on her burned arms. “I have to admit I miss Murat. And Lirylah.”

  Roustam-Raza said nothing for a short time, then pointed out a pile of rubble on the west bank of the river. “They say that was once a sphinx. But they say that about many piles of ancient rocks.”

  Victoire accepted this diversion and ventured nothing more about Murat and Lirylah, giving herself over to the pleasure of letting Roustam-Raza describe the various ruins along the banks of the Nile.

  * * *

  At midday, the felucca pulled to the shallows of the east bank and anchored there while the crew slept through the heat of the day. Insects droned over the water and in the reeds that stood along the banks, and small birds busied themselves catching them. Not far off two goats were tethered, bleating and occasionally butting heads.

  “You should lie down, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza, coming down the deck to where she stood. “It is going to be a very long day.”

  “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “If we reach Cairo.”

  “They tell me it’s certain,” said Roustam-Raza, standing beside her. “And then we will find proper escort to return you to the camp.”

  “Yes,” she said again.

  Roustam-Raza regarded her closely. “What is it that troubles you, Madame?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I have misgivings, but ... I fear that Berthier won’t believe my account of how we recovered the scepter. I doubt he will accept any account of Hazlett. He might decide that this is nothing more than a clever ploy.” She took a long breath. “It’s foolishness to invite trouble, but ...”

  “They will believe what you say, because I will say it as well,” Roustam-Raza informed her. “They will have to believe what I tell them, for I will swear it with my hand on the Quran.”

  “I hope you prove right,” said Victoire, wiping her brow with the remna
nts of her handkerchief. “It haunts me. I dislike puzzles when necessary information is held back. Why hold it back?” She made a gesture as if to shove her unpleasant thoughts away. “If only I could have learned who paid Hazlett.”

  “That is a misfortune,” agreed Roustam-Raza. “But standing in the hot sun will not answer the question. You need to rest. You will need to be ready to present yourself to the garrison leader this evening, and if you remain here on deck, you will not be.” He paused. “I will keep watch, and take my rest later, when we’re under way again.”

  She allowed herself to be persuaded. “All right. I’ll lie down for an hour. I suppose that means using that horrid little cabin?”

  “And I will sit outside the door,” said Roustam-Raza. “Open the window on the river side and you will feel a little cooler.”

  “That’s not saying much,” she remarked as she ducked down the-narrow companionway. Here there was the pervasive smell of tar and wet wood, and the bitter-rich scent of the Nile. The passage was dark and narrow, just large enough for single file: Roustam-Raza walked behind her, his hand still on the hilt of his scimitar.

  The cabin she had been assigned was not much larger than an armoire, with most of the room being taken up by the rope-sprung cot. A single lantern served to light the cabin at night. In one corner a worn canvas bag stood open, containing her night-rail, the djellaba Hazlett had provided her, and her other riding habit. Victoire was heartily sick of them.

  On impulse she took off her habit and drew on the djellaba. It was cooler and less constricting than the habit. She decided she would sponge off the worst stains on the habit before she donned it again. No matter what I do, she told herself, I will not make a good appearance, not in those clothes. Disheartened, she opened the window and stared out at the bronze surface of the river fretted with deep blue. At another time, she thought, this would be pretty. She lay back on the cot and dutifully closed her eyes, convinced that she would not be able to sleep.