Napoleon Must Die (16 page)

Lirylah called on the mercy of Allah, then calmed herself. “What are you planning to do, Madame?” she whispered.

“I think,” said Victoire quietly, “I think that if we are very careful, we can move this tent pole out of its seating, and then slide it along until there is enough give for us to be able to slip our bonds beneath it. We should then be able to loosen the knots and get free.” It sounded very plausible when she described it; she hoped it would actually work.

“I will try to help,” Lirylah promised her, panic just beneath the words.

“Good. It will make you feel less afraid,” said Victoire; she needed to steady her nerves as well.

“How long will it take?” Lirylah asked, her voice rising.

“We’ll find out,” said Victoire, and set about twisting her hands around enough to take hold of the tent pole, at the same time feeling for the tin seating sunk into the ground for it.

“The ropes are cutting into my wrists,” said Lirylah, her tone steady.

“And mine,” said Victoire as she continued to struggle for a good hold.

“I can’t turn my hands, Madame.”

“Then help me lift when I tell you,” said Victoire, all the while trying to listen for Hazlett and his men. This would be the worst time for them to notice their captives. “We’d best work in silence.”

Half an hour later, Lirylah whimpered. “How much longer?”

“A little while,” said Victoire, feeling sweat all over her body from her constant struggle with the tent pole. The tension of the canvas made it difficult for her to get sufficient purchase to lift the wood against the ridge of the tent. Her shoulders were beginning to ache and her hands trembled. They would have to get free very soon or not at all.

“My hands are numb,” said Lirylah quietly. “I can’t close them at all. I can’t feel them.”

“Wait a little longer,” Victoire pleaded, making one last valiant effort to move the tent pole.

And this time, driven by her final effort, the pole did move, just far enough for Victoire to slip it out of the seating. She struggled to hold it steady as it wobbled.

“What happened?” whispered Lirylah.

“We’ve got it out,” Victoire answered softly, wanting to shout it. “Now, if you will slide a little toward ...” She inched toward the slightly descending slope that led eventually to the Nile.

Lirylah wriggled, doing all that she could to help Victoire move the tent pole far enough to get the thongs that bound them underneath it. “The clothes are ...”

“Climbing?” suggested Victoire, panting with effort, She felt the
djellaba
slither up her legs as she worked. “We’ll lower them when we get our hands free.”

“If we are discovered—” whispered Lirylah.

“The least we will have to worry about is an exposure of thigh,” said Victoire with asperity, her shoulders and elbows arching as she continued to try to hold the tent pole erect as she moved it aside.

“It could fall,” said Lirylah a short while later.

“And that’d attract attention. We mustn’t do that until we’re able to get away from here.” She was drenched in sweat now, but the tent pole was moving a little more easily. If they could get near the edge of it, slip their bonds, and get under the edge before the tent fell, they had a chance of getting away. To distract herself from the exhausting effort she was making, Victoire attempted to determine what time of night it had to be. She decided it could not be much later than eleven o’clock—late enough for someone who rose before dawn—which meant that there was still a chance that Murat was looking for them: he would not call off his search until midnight.

The tent pole jiggered, the crest flapping as the pole was finally eased of slack from the canvas roof.

“Now!” whispered Victoire, nudging Lirylah with her shoulder. “Toward the Nile.”

They tugged and sawed with their bonds, and in a few minutes, they had pulled them under the tent pole, releasing the tension on the knots that held them.

“I can’t do
—
” Lirylah said. “My hands—”

“I’ll tend to it,” said Victoire, her scraped and bloody fingers plucking at the knots, breaking the last one of her nails in the process. She swore and kept on.

Then they were free. Victoire got to her feet on shaking legs and reached for the tent pole to keep it from falling. She felt weak now that she was free, and it was almost more than she could do to keep from lying down to rest. She made herself hold the tent pole and move it back toward the seating.

Lirylah slowly stood, holding out her hands as if she were dizzy. “I still can’t feel my hands,” she muttered.

“We have to get away,” said Victoire. “We’ll tend to your hands once we’re safe.”

“I can’t feel them,” she said again, holding them out in front of her.

“Be grateful. When the numbness goes they will hurt,” said Victoire, deliberately blunt. She tried to lift the tent pole back into the seating but could not quite raise it. After another try, she abandoned the attempt. She shoved the tent pole hard into the sand, then moved back from it. “I hope it will hold.”

Lirylah touched her face, her fingers open and stiff. “I have nothing to cover my head.”

“No one will see. It’s late. By morning we will find a veil for you,” She moved nearer the edge of the tent. “If we work together we can pull up the stakes.”

“But my hands—” Lirylah protested.

“With our shoulders, not our hands,” said Victoire quietly. “Two good pushes and we can be out. The tent will probably fall, but if we run toward the river, we may find help.”

“All right,” said Lirylah, sounding far from certain.

Victoire knelt down and tugged on Lirylah’s sleeve, moving them both to the edge of the tent.

Lirylah followed her. “How long will this take?”

“Not too long,” said Victoire, certain that they would either escape or be discovered within the next five minutes. She bent down until she felt the canvas bow and stretch across her back. “Get ready. When I tell you, try to stand up.”

“I will,” said Lirylah, great determination in her voice.

At Victoire’s signal the two women shoved themselves upward against the tent. There was great resistance, and then one side came free, so quickly that Victoire nearly fell over. Lirylah stumbled through the flapping edge into the night.

“Down the hill. Toward the Nile,” whispered Victoire urgently.

“Yes,” whispered Lirylah, and started to run.

Behind them, the tent tottered and swayed, then fell as the tent pole lost the tension of the canvas.

The rocks and sand scored their feet, and suddenly Lirylah gave a short, high cry. Her foot had been badly cut by a sharp outcropping of stone that was hidden by the dim night shadows.

Behind them was the first alarm. One of the men shouted.

“I can’t run,” Lirylah protested as Victoire came up to her.

“With my help you can,” said Victoire, putting her arm around Lirylah and supporting her, half-hopping, half-running.

There were more yells behind them, and then the report of a pistol.

“Keep running,” said Victoire, making her voice quiet so that Hazlett would not be able to aim at the sound of it.

“I ... Leave me behind,” Lirylah whispered, her breath becoming ragged as she forced herself to lurch along with Victoire.

“No,” said Victoire in a way that left no room for dispute. They were nearing the river, and there was the sound of a boat tied to a quay. The river lapped and rubbed at it, and occasionally the boat thudded against the pilings. “We go south here, I think,” said Victoire, finding it difficult to speak. “Toward the village.”

Another shot was fired, and this time the ball struck a tree close to them.

“They’re coming after us,” Lirylah whispered, doing everything to keep up. “Where is Murat?”

“Nearby, I pray God,” said Victoire, and swore as she stubbed her toes on a length of wood left across the path.

The shouts of the men behind them were louder, and out of the corner of her eye, Victoire could see the bobbing light of a lantern. Hazlett’s men had seen Lirylah’s blood and were tracking them swiftly.

A third shot was fired, and this time found its mark, striking Lirylah high in the shoulder. The ball made a loud thump as it tore into the woman’s flesh.

She screamed, stiffened, and then sagged in Victoire’s grasp.

Victoire held on grimly and all but dragged the Egyptian girl along with her, praying that the next ball would not find her.

“They can’t be far ahead,” called out Hazlett, intending that Victoire should overhear him. “Bring them down.”

Then, as all hope was about to vanish, Victoire heard the sound of hoofbeats, and recognized Roustam-Raza’s distinctive voice raised to carry through battle. “Over here. There is something over here.”

Hazlett’s men faltered in their pursuit, looking to their leader for orders.

Victoire managed to pull Lirylah a few steps further, toward a stand of date palms.

“Where in the name of Belial—” Murat shouted from further off than Roustam-Raza.

“Here!” bellowed Roustam-Raza, who appeared suddenly on the narrow track where Victoire had stood the minute before. He was riding a horse Victoire had never seen, and he carried his scimitar at the ready.

The men with Hazlett saw him, too, and fell back as the Mameluke bore down on them.

A moment later Murat appeared on a spotted mare, sabre out and pistol ready. He was about to join with Roustam-Raza when Victoire called to him. He wheeled the mare and rushed back to the date palms where Victoire had tried to find some protection.

“It’s Lirylah,” she said as Murat hurtled out of the saddle. Now that she had begun, she did not know how to soften the blow. “I fear ... she has been shot.”

In the dark it was not possible to read his face, but his voice changed completely. “Shot?”

“There’s a lot of blood,” said Victoire, who had seen enough wounds in Larrey’ s service to realize that this one was very serious.

“Jesu et Marie,”
he whispered. “Where is she?”

“Just here,” said Victoire, and led him the few steps to where Lirylah sat at the base of a date palm, her back against the tree. Victoire stood aside as Murat went down on his knees beside Lirylah.

“You’re here,” she murmured as Murat touched her. “I knew.”

“Oh, my God,” he said in despair. He knew that sound of old; the sound of life fading from the body. “Lirylah, no.”

“I said you’d come,” she said on a sigh. “You would be here.” She lifted her hand to touch his face. “You’re here.”

Murat crossed himself and reached out to pull her into his arms. As he touched the back of her
djellaba,
he felt the hot blood there, and tears welled in his eyes. “Lirylah. Lirylah.” He said it as if her name could protect her; he stroked her hair.

“That’s ... so ...” She smiled, then rested her head in the curve of his shoulder and arm.

“Don’t, Lirylah,” he urged her, trying to keep her with him a few seconds longer.

She looked up at him. “Stay here.”

“Yes, yes, my love. Yes, little dove.” His voice was thick with tears and grief.

Victoire moved a few steps away, afraid of intruding on them.

This time when Lirylah smiled, a line of blood trailed from the corner of her mouth. “It’s almost ...” She coughed once. “Done.”

For more than two minutes, Murat remained completely still, holding Lirylah as if she were yet breathing. Then, very slowly, he started to rock her, cradling her close, gently. And as he rocked her, he wept.

* * *

It was more than an hour before Victoire could persuade Murat to release Lirylah. And when he did there was a darkness in his face, an implacable rage in his eyes. Heedless of the blood that dappled his clothing, he pushed past Victoire and strode to where Roustam-Raza had gathered Hazlett and his men together. He looked over them, something wild growing within him. “Who did it?” he asked in a voice so tight and rough that he sounded like a stranger.

“The Arab girl?” Hazlett drawled. “Or the French one?”

“Do you say it didn’t matter?” Murat demanded, drawing his sabre as he started toward Hazlett. He did not wait for an answer, but struck down savagely, once, twice. Blood erupted from two deep, mortal wounds and Hazlett died before his body struck the sand. In three strokes, one of his men fell beside him.

By the time Roustam-Raza reached Murat and grabbed him from behind, a third man was dead and Murat was keening to the darkest part of the night.

* * *

Not long after the first morning call to prayer, Roustam-Raza buried Hazlett and his two men, and arranged for a proper burial for Lirylah. He went about his tasks silently, taking pains to avoid Murat, who stood at the edge of the Nile, staring across at the rising sun as if he wanted to drown it in darkness forever.

“Do you want anything?” Victoire asked him when at last she dared to approach him.

“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.”