Napoleon Must Die (12 page)

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 her 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.

Kemal Nusair folded down onto one of the tremendous cushions. “Your note intrigued me, Murat,” he said, his attitude very satisfied. “It is a pleasure to be of service to the men of Napoleon. Surely he is a very great man.”

“Most surely,” said Murat, and motioned to Victoire to be silent. “Which is why we rely on your discretion in this matter.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We must find out where these Englishmen have gone, and we must do it without any undue attention falling upon us.”

“I understand your predicament,” said Nusair. “You would not serve Napoleon well if you made all the world privy to his actions.”

“Exactly,” said Murat.

Three servants came into the room carrying a large brass tray laden with fruit and sweetmeats. They put this down on the frame that waited at the center of the room, and then went to Murat with a ewer of rosewater and a basin.

As he held out his hands, he said to Victoire, “They will do this for you, too. Wash your hands and use the towel they provide.”

“Very well,” said Victoire, who had heard about this custom but had never seen it before. She glanced at Nusair. “I must thank you for including me in your entertainment. I realize that few women ... visit as I have.”

“It is a thing that may change in time,” said Nusair with a philosophical gesture. “I have done my poor best to change the most limiting of our customs.” He watched as she washed her hands in the stream of rosewater. “Permit me to say, Madame Vernet, that you have very fair skin.”

She glanced at him, a bit startled by his observation. “In this climate, I would prefer to have darker. As you see, the heat and dryness exact a toll. Many European women have to deal with this; I am not the only one.” As she finished wiping her hands, she held them out, revealing her chapped knuckles.

“Yes; the sun is very harsh here, and more so to those who are pale,” he said, and looked around as the slave led two veiled women into the room. “There you are,” he said to them, indicating the cushions. “We have guests, as you see.”

The two women stared at Victoire over their veils with kohl-rimmed eyes. “It is a pleasure,” said the slighter of the two.

“My daughter, Lirylah. This is Madame Vernet. Murat you already know. And my First Wife. She is old-fashioned; I hope you will not be offended if she doesn’t speak to you.” Nusair leaned back and made an extravagant gesture of approval. “Very cozy. Very European.”

Neither Murat nor Victoire disabused him of the notion. Murat half-rose as the women sat down, compromising as best he could between proper Egyptian and French conduct. “Let me thank you for your hospitality of the other night,” he said to the women.

“Very gracious,” answered Lirylah. Her French was strongly accented and she spoke hesitantly, but there was no translation needed for the way she stared at Joachim Murat.

“I have had a most interesting note from Murat,” said Nusair. “He tells me that he needs our assistance. It would be appropriate for us to hear him out. And Madame Vernet, as well.” The afterthought of her name reminded Victoire how out of place she was in this setting.

Murat accepted the transfer of interest. “Yes,” he said slowly, looking over toward Lirylah. “We have a ... necessary errand we must perform, and for that we need information and ... help.”

“What nature of help?” asked Nusair for the benefit of his family.

“There is a place we have to find. Napoleon’s enemies are bound for it now, and we must stop them.” Murat looked over at Victoire. “Madame Vernet was the one who stumbled upon the plot, and she has been instrumental in our discoveries.” He sat back in the chair. “The enemies of Napoleon are going to a place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers.”

Nusair chuckled, and looked over at his daughter. “You see? I have said that it is sensible to teach women something other than the raising of children and the pleasuring of men.” He regarded his guests. “I have been at pains to be certain that my daughter receives some degree of education. She has learned French, as you are aware, but she has also learned other things, including geography.” He grinned. “I was told she was an apt pupil.”

“Indeed?” said Victoire, looking at Lirylah with new interest. “Who was her tutor?”

“A very well-educated Italian, one who came here many years ago, to study the old monuments. When the river was in flood he was forced to remain here and earn his bread with his wits. He agreed to teach her in exchange for access to my ships. He was not interested in the places my agents go, but there were sites along the Nile he made the most of.” Nusair clapped his hands together. “Recite for them, Lirylah. The one that has to do with the teacher in the dark wood. I like the sound of that one.”

Obediently Lirylah began the first canto of the
Inferno,
her Italian more accented than her French. She had gone a dozen lines into the poem when she faltered, losing herself in a tangle of words.

Victoire took it up where Lirylah left off. “‘At the end of the precipitous and rough-faced valley
/
That until this moment had pierced my soul with dread,
/
I
lifted my eyes, and saw the mountain-ridge shining ...’” She let the words trail off as she looked directly at Lirylah. “It is a very great poem.”

“It offends many people,” said Lirylah seriously.

“Good Muslims do not believe in the same Heaven and Hell as we do,” said Murat, encouraging Nusair’s daughter to continue. “You recite it very well.”

“My tutor was strict,” said Lirylah, and volunteered nothing more.

Nusair was not put off. “This is a very canny girl,” he said of his daughter with great pride. “She is not as other women. God has put a man’s brain into her body.”

Victoire, who had heard similar remarks made about herself most of her life, bristled in Lirylah’s defense. “It is not God who provides the knowledge, but human study, sir. Your daughter is an apt pupil because she loves learning, not because she ought to be a son.”

Murat’s breath caught in his throat and he prepared to intervene in a pitched battle. “Madame Vernet has been very well educated, you see—” he began, only to be cut off by Nusair’s amused laughter.

“What heat you reveal, Madame Vernet,” he said, wiping his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “I have heard that Frenchwomen have hot tempers, but you are more ferocious than half the soldiers of the Pasha.” He shook his finger at his daughter. “You see what education can do to females. Be warned, my girl. I will not have contention in my house.”

“No, treasured father,” said Lirylah. She glanced swiftly at Victoire, then at Murat.

With a great show of patience, Murat nudged their conversation back in the direction he wished it to go. “About this place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers. If your tutor taught you geography, is it too much to hope that he let you know where this site is?”

“He told me of his explorations there,” said Lirylah, abashed, as if admitting to such knowledge was tantamount to knowing state secrets.

“Ah,” said Murat, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “And do you think you could indicate the place to us on the map?”

“It is ... possible,” she said. “But every year the river changes a little, and I might not reveal the correct landmarks.”

Murat sat very still, then turned toward Victoire. “What do you think?” he asked, his frown revealing more of his thoughts than he realized.

“I think that we need the information, however we must go about getting it,” she responded softly. “If we’re going after the English, that is.”

“We must do that, unless we find the ... object here in Alexandria, and that no longer seems likely,” said Murat, grim purpose behind his easy smile. “If the English have the ... object, or know where it is, we have to recover it.” He looked directly at Nusair. “We’re at your mercy, I fear.”

“At my mercy?” repeated their host as he reached for one of the sweetmeats. “What an outlandish notion. Surely it is we Egyptians who are at the mercy of you French.”

Murat stared at Nusair. “I am not here as a conqueror, sir. You forget we represent Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité.”

“Of course you are not, but there are those among the French who are not made of the same stuff.” He indicated a pastry dripping honey. “This is very good. You must have some.”

Murat was not about to be put off with tidbits. “I am a French officer, Mister Nusair, and I am proud of my rank, but let me assure you that I am not here to cause any distress to you, your family, or your country. If you do not believe this, then excuse Madame Vernet and me for bothering you in this unseemly way.”

Lirylah turned to her father, her eyes enormous with dismay. She spoke rapidly to her father, who was watching Murat dumbfounded. He answered her before he collected himself and addressed Murat. “I don’t know what I have said that has offended you, but I hope you will disregard it, General Murat. My words were hasty, the talk of one unfamiliar with the language and prone to error.” He signalled the servants for coffee. “Please. Have—”

There was another, softer outburst from Lirylah which evoked an astonished series of questions from her father. Victoire listened, using what little Arabic she had learned from Roustam-Raza, but recognized only a few words, not enough to make sense of what passed between them. She tried to appear that she could not understand anything, for she suspected that would be regarded as intolerably rude by Kemal Nusair.

At last Nusair slapped his hand down on the table
—
narrowly missing the sweetmeats—and after a burst of rapid Arabic, he regarded Murat. “This daughter of mine tells me that she knows where to find the place you seek. She was shown maps by her tutor.” He shot her a fulminating glance, and returned his attention to Murat. “She is suggesting an unacceptable thing. I will not bring more shame on her by telling you what she says.”

Victoire spoke before Murat did. “I think it would be helpful, sir, if you will let us know what your daughter is saying, for I have a suggestion to make that I know will be at least as upsetting to you as anything she has put forth to you thus far.”

“What would that be?” asked Nusair, frowning portentously.

Victoire motioned to Murat, warning him not to interrupt her. “Mister Nusair, it is my intention to travel upriver with General of the Cavalry Murat. I have a task to perform on behalf of my husband, who is away in Jaffa and cannot act for himself. I will require another woman for the journey. I would like to arrange for your daughter to accompany me, so that we may all travel with propriety.” She had said it in a rush, as if afraid that if she stopped she could not continue. “It is a great imposition, and ordinarily I would not dare to put forth such a suggestion. But this is a very important mission, one that’ll have lasting consequences on Napoleon’s campaign in Egypt. Those who render assistance in this may be certain of his gratitude at its conclusion.”

Nusair was staring at her, too astonished to be affronted. He swallowed hard twice before he said, “You are proposing that my daughter travel with you? Away from this house? Out of the company of her mother?”

“I am proposing that she come with us so that she may aid us in finding the Treasure-chest of Robbers, as well as making it acceptable for me to go with General Murat. As a married woman, I must not travel with him alone. I would be compromised beyond recall.” Victoire lowered her eyes modestly in order not to see the expression of approval and amusement in Murat’s brown eyes.