Napoleon Must Die (19 page)

“But it isn’t preposterous,” Victoire insisted, her voice almost breaking with emotion. “If he were here General Joachim Murat would vouch for me.”

“And you had a letter to that effect, but lost it when you were forced to dive into the Nile,” Captain Echevue finished for her. “Most intrepid, I’m sure.”

Victoire wanted to scream, but she controlled the urge. “Would you rather I present you with a more credible lie? I am telling you the truth, and Roustam-Raza knows it to be the truth.”

“A Mameluke’s word ... well, it is an original notion.” He was looking at Victoire and did not see the rage that crossed Roustam-Raza’s features.

Roustam-Raza shoved his shoulder between Captain Echevue and Victoire, facing the officer as he said, “Bring the Quran and I will tell the whole story to you again, with Allah as my bond and witness. We were in the company of General Murat until he was ordered to join Colonel Kleber. Send a courier after him and obtain his testimony, if you must. Or send word to Berthier, and ask him to hear me out.”

Captain Echevue was put off by this daunting assertion. He strove to put more distance between himself and Roustam-Raza, all the while trying to restore his own dignity with a deprecating cough. “I will send word to Berthier at once, you need have no fear of that. And I will detain you here until sense can be made of your story.”

“In the meantime, the Pasha hides the scepter,” said Victoire flatly. “I hope you will not have to answer for that.”

Captain Echevue pursed his lips. “You tell me it is the Pasha who has arranged this. But Roustam-Raza is a Mameluke, the gift of the Pasha. Is it possible that he might have wanted to—”

He got no further. Roustam-Raza reached out and seized the front of Captain Echevue’s pelisse. “I am sworn to Napoleon while there is breath in my body, and I am his man and no other’s. If you doubt me, then make your claim where I may seek retribution for this lie you speak of me.”

Now Captain Echevue was shaken. He managed to pry Roustam-Raza’s fingers off his clothes. He did not speak for well over a minute while he neatened the front of his pelisse. “I will send word to Berthier at once. But I warn you: you had better have a good account to render. Berthier is not the sort of man to take kindly to deception.” With that, he signalled the guard at his door. “See that these two have somewhere to clean up. And do something about that deplorable ... thing! she is wearing.”

Victoire plucked at the
djellaba.
No doubt the captain was right and she ought to have proper women’s clothes. She rose from the upholstered bench where she had been sitting and addressed Captain Echevue as politely as she could. “Thank you. I have clothes in camp. So long as you are sending word to Berthier, perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Larrey as well if he could spare a moment or two from tending the wounded to arrange a valise of clothing for me?”

There was more caution in Captain Echevue’s eyes. “How do you know Larrey?”

“I have tended wounded under his supervision, as most officers’ wives do,” she answered directly, and saw that at last she had scored a point.

But Captain Echevue was reluctant to concede it. “If it seems appropriate, I will.”

Victoire studied him, then said, “Some arrangement of that sort must be made, or I’ll have to continue to wear this Egyptian garment.”

Roustam-Raza looked from one to the other, moving a step nearer to Victoire.

Captain Echevue capitulated. “Very well, I’ll inquire about other clothes.”

Victoire curtsied, knowing not to press her advantage. “Thank you.”

MOST OF THE
garrison
had retired for the night; only guards patrolled the darkened halls. On the second floor in a salon not far from the kitchen a few officers remained over hands of piquet; the rest had retired more than an hour before.

Roustam-Raza had established himself on a pallet outside Victoire’s door, and was very nearly asleep when he heard a tap from the inside. He sat up at once, scimitar ready, and opened the door a crack. “Madame?”

“I need you to find me one of the page’s trousers—preferably a pair that will fit, and nothing French.” She gave him the instructions as if there were nothing odd about them.

“What?” he demanded, contriving not to raise his voice.

“I need a pair of page’s trousers. I have the proper Greek shirt, but without the trousers ...” She did not wheedle—that would be useless with the Mameluke.

“And why would you want trousers, Madame, now that we are back in Cairo?” he challenged her.

“Because I want to see where the Pasha’s men have gone. If we know they are at the palace, then we will know where to search for the scepter.” Her voice was steady, as if her outrageous proposition were no more shocking than a stroll in the park.

Roustam-Raza swore comprehensively in Egyptian.

“I must do this, Roustam-Raza, and I will do it with or without your help. But it would be easier—and safer—if you were to assist me.” She let him have some time to consider the implications. “Will you do this for me, Roustam-Raza?”

“No decent Muslim would help in such an insane and improper scheme,” he told her. “What you suggest is appalling.”

“My husband will be dismissed in dishonor if the scepter is not returned. I have it in my power to assist him. What else am I to do?” she inquired. “If I were a Muslim woman, I would not do this, but I am a Christian, and my duty is clear.”

Roustam-Raza gave a long, slow sigh. “Trousers, you say?”

“I thought if I dressed like a Greek eunuch again, I might be able to get close enough to the palace to learn something,” she said.

“More than you want to,” Roustam-Raza pointed out. “Eunuchs of that sort are more preferred than women by many. If one of the Pasha’s guards desired you, you would be doubly lost, and we would be helpless to save you.”

It was Victoire’s turn to sigh. “I’ve heard tales about the way these men are. If they attempted to ... to detain me, I would reveal that I am a Christian woman.”

“And you would be sent to the hareem, and would not be allowed out again, no matter what anyone said. Napoleon has no power inside the palace, and no woman who enters the hareem leaves it except as a corpse.” He spoke bluntly in the hope that he could dissuade her.

“I will have to be careful,” she said. “And I will be, Roustam-Raza. I am not a flighty girl, and I know there is danger.”

Roustam-Raza turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “If I do not get the trousers you will find a way to do this mad thing, anyway, won’t you?” He did not need an answer from her.

“I must, Roustam-Raza.”

He knew he could not convince her to abandon her plan. “Give me an hour then. And do not leave that chamber until I return. If you do leave, I will not help you. Is that understood?”

“Yes.” She sounded excited, and this made him wary.

“I’ll come with you, as far as I am allowed. Now that I am Napoleon’s man, I am not permitted to enter the palace, but with Napoleon himself.” He sheathed his scimitar. “One hour, Madame Vernet. And I will do what I can for you.”

“I’m grateful, Roustam-Raza,” she said, and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading in the hall.

She then went to get her ewer and basin. She needed to bathe and wash her hair before Roustam-Raza returned. She would also need a little charcoal to pat onto her jaw and upper lip so that it would appear that she had a wisp of beard, as a few of the eunuchs did. This was one occasion, she thought, that she did not mind that her breasts were small, for it made her pose as a eunuch more convincing. She selected the rose-scented soap the garrison had provided her, and poured water into the basin, finding a sponge and a towel in the top drawer of the commode.

* * *

“How did you manage to persuade me to this,” Roustam-Raza complained as they strode through the streets of Cairo not long after midnight. “Only thieves and murderers are abroad at this hour.”

“And which are we?” she asked brightly, determined not to let his gloom touch her. “Thieves, I suppose, if we are trying to locate the scepter. Since the Pasha claims it as his own, and we intend to take it back, now or another time—”

“You are not to steal from the Pasha, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza with force.

“No, certainly not.” She said it much too willingly and too quickly for him to be anything other than suspicious. Sensing his reservations, she went on, “I wouldn’t know where to find the scepter in any case, so the whole question is moot.”

“I am pleased that you admit it,” said Roustam-Raza, his stride loosening. “I will take you to near the kitchens. At this time of night it is the only place you can be safe, and my presence will not be noticed. I will not compromise my position, and you will be able to hear the servants and slaves gossip. That is your intention, isn’t it?”

“I’d like to find the men who took the scepter,” she reminded him. “But at this hour, that isn’t likely.” She changed from French to Greek. “From here on, this would be the wiser language.”

“I do not speak it as well,” said Roustam-Raza in that tongue. “But you are right.”

They were nearing the palace now, and the surroundings were subtly grander: the streets somewhat wider, the housefronts in excellent repair, with more ornaments of worked iron and brass.

“The kitchens are opposite the stables,” said Roustam-Raza, his Greek harsh and guttural, more Arabic than Greek in sound. “There are gardens between them.”

“Very sensible,” said Victoire. “Keep the midden away from the food. There are fewer flies on the meat. Although in this country, there are flies everywhere,” she added as she considered the question. Little though she wanted to admit it, now that she was close to the palace, she was beginning to be scared. Roustam-Raza’s warnings had taken on new credibility as they approached the imposing walls.

“Don’t slow down,” said Roustam-Raza as they reached the open square in front of the main gates. “The guards will detain you if they see you linger here.”

“Yes,” she said, permitting him to direct her around to the left, toward the kitchens. “I had no idea the palace was so large,” she confessed as they walked.

“Keep that in mind,” he recommended. “I would not think the less of you if you decide to put aside this venture.”

“I would think the less of myself,” said Victoire.

“Greeks,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “are very proud.”

“Indeed Greeks are,” she answered in the same tone.

As they walked along the walls, Roustam-Raza told her, “It is not wise to look up. The guards could detain you for that, as well. They would say that you are spying on them.”

“How absurd,” she said.

“Isn’t it. And when we reach the kitchens, remember that many of the servants and slaves know some Greek. And French.” He walked a little slower. “You will need some pretext to be there.”

“I suppose I will,” she said, much struck.

“You might be carrying a message. You have delivered it and are waiting for a reply, or you have been sent to get a reply. Yes, that would be better. If you are waiting on one of the Pasha’s advisors, it would be reasonable for you to remain in the kitchen area.” He frowned. “A Greek eunuch might be the servant of ... oh, any number of important men. Say you are the servant of a foundry master. You are waiting for official permission for your master to sell cannon to the Infidels.” He rubbed his hands together. “There’s enough of that going on, and it makes sense you being here at night.”

“I’m the servant of a foundry master. Where is the foundry?” She glanced at him. “In case I’m asked.”

“The foundry is in Ausim. That’s close enough to Cairo, and to the French.” He indicated two gates, one of which stood open. “If you go through that door, you are beyond me. Is that understood?”

“Yes, yes, I understand,” she said with exaggerated patience. “But if I enter the kitchen yard, you’ll be able to watch me, and I’ll listen. It makes better sense for a messenger to be inside the gate, doesn’t it? If I were going to stay outside, I might as well be at the front of the palace.”

He glowered. “True enough.” Although he was filled with misgiving, he nodded once. “The kitchen yard, and only the kitchen yard. If you are apprehended—”

“I know, I’m lost.” She said it lightly enough, but the impact of it struck her at last. If she were caught inside the palace, she would have to remain there for the rest of her life. For a moment it was difficult to breathe, and then she recovered herself. “I’ll be careful,” she promised him.

He made a gesture that indicated he could not actually believe her. Ominously Victoire remembered how equally optimistic she had been at the start of their journey down the Nile.

She went to the gate, peering in to make note of the activity there. At this hour very little was going on. A girl with a scarred face—possibly Turkish—sat peeling onions at the entrance to what Victoire supposed was the pantry. Beyond her a thin young man was sweeping the cobblestones, his pleasant face vacant. Inside the kitchen there was some activity, but Victoire could not see it clearly. She nodded toward Roustam-Raza, and slipped through the gate.

She had not been in the courtyard for more than three minutes when a young man in palace livery came into the courtyard, calling out for one of the nighttime cooks.

“I want coffee,” he ordered when one of the servants appeared in the hallway. “And something to eat. It is going to be a long night.”

“It is always a long night,” said the servant.

Victoire understood about half of what they said. Suddenly she felt much more vulnerable. If only she had taken the time to learn more Egyptian from Roustam-Raza. But her few phrases had seemed enough while he was with her to provide translations. She watched the kitchen servant, hoping that something in the man’s manner would indicate how she should react to the elegant young man.

“They are making plans,” complained the young man. “Something has pleased the Pasha and he has four of his ministers with him, and some of the commanders of his army.”

“They have asked for coffee and sweetmeats,” agreed the kitchen servant.

The young man caught sight of Victoire and gave her a single, penetrating look. “Who are you?” he demanded.

She answered in Greek, hoping that he would be able to understand her. “I am a messenger. From Ausim.”

His Greek was passable. “To what purpose?”

“My master has a foundry. He wants to sell cannon to the French. I am supposed to bring him permission from the Pasha.” She said it with all the confidence she could muster, but to herself she sounded patently dishonest.

“Part of the plan,” said the young man, nodding. “Allah protect the Pasha and give him glory in battle.”

“Allah is great,” said Victoire in Egyptian, one of the few phrases she knew well enough to use. She went on in Greek. “I was told to wait for an answer.”

“And well you might. We’re all waiting tonight. The whole palace is filled with waiting men.” He tossed his head. “The kitchen will never be cool.”

“No, it won’t,” said Victoire, trusting that this was a safe answer.

“What is your name, and who is your master?” asked the young man. “I am Yousef.”

Victoire had already invented. “I’m Perikles. My master is Abdel Hillet.” It was an ordinary name, but not so ordinary that it would be grounds for suspicion.

“Perikles,” said Yousef. “An auspicious name. Well, you could have a wait. You might as well come into the kitchen with me and have something to eat. They aren’t going to finish any time soon.”

Victoire managed to yawn. “Food might make me sleepy.”

“The coffee will waken you. It’s what the great ones are doing to keep awake.” He nodded to the kitchen servant. “You can feed him, too, can’t you?”

“Of course,” said the servant, and started back down the hall.

Victoire followed along, trying to persuade herself that this was a stroke of good luck.

Yousef clapped his hands as they entered the main part of the kitchen and brought a dozen servants hurrying toward them. “Coffee. Sweetmeats.”

The kitchen itself seemed a page out of history to Victoire, who had accustomed herself to the modern kitchens of France, with enclosed stoves and ovens. This kitchen was one of open hearths and tremendous spits, and only one old-fashioned griddle-stove. Huge chopping blocks and tremendous pastry boards made passage through the kitchen difficult.

Over their refreshments—which Victoire remembered to eat with the right hand only—Yousef, glad of an audience, regaled Victoire with his own knowledge of the current activities in the palace, embellishing with his own suppositions when he lacked information.

“Who are you supposed to see?” he asked when they were almost finished with their coffee.