Napoleon Must Die (6 page)

“I have been taught French,” Roustam-Raza answered at once. His accent was rough but he clearly was comfortable with the language.

“That’s an advantage.” She considered him, saying to him in passable Greek, “And do you understand this?”

“Moderately well,” answered Roustam-Raza in Greek. This was not surprising, as most of the trade brought to Egypt from other countries came on Greek transport.

She pursed her lips, thinking swiftly. “You are going to have someone watching me no matter what I say, aren’t you?” she asked Berthier.

“Yes,” he said bluntly.

“So it isn’t a question of if I am watched, but who watches me,” she said. “Have I understood?”

“Well enough, Madame,” said Berthier. “What is it to be?”

Victoire sighed. “I suppose it must be the obvious one,” she answered, knowing that it was the wiser course. “I will do what I can to instruct this ... gift in French ways. And he will watch me for you.” She shook her head. “It is a very poor bargain for both of us, Berthier.”

“But one you will accept,” he said.

“If the Mameluke will accept it, who am I to dispute you?” She said it cordially enough but there was ire in her blue eyes. She turned away from Berthier and addressed Roustam-Raza directly. “Since we are being thrown together, we might as well begin at once.”

Roustam-Raza remained where he was on the floor. “It isn’t correct for a woman to tell a man what to do.”

“It had better be, if you are to learn anything from me,” said Victoire, undaunted. “I wish you would stand up.”

“Do as she says, for Napoleon,” added Berthier quietly.

Roustam-Raza got to his feet at once. “I am sworn to serve him until all his enemies are dead, or he is.”

“Very commendable, I’m certain,” said Victoire. An idea had just occurred to her—with an Egyptian to advise her, she might be able to learn more about the missing scepter, for the Mameluke could go places and speak to those Victoire was unable to reach. “Let’s strive to make the best of this very unsatisfactory situation,” she suggested to Roustam-Raza, offering him her hand to kiss.

Roustam-Raza refused to touch her. “You are a married woman.”

“And devoted to my husband,” said Victoire. “But among the French, it is correct to kiss the hands of married women. Berthier,” she went on, her hand extended, “will you be good enough to show this soldier how it’s done?”

As Berthier bent over her hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips he had the oddest sensation that he had forfeited this round to Madame Vernet.

VICTOIRE WROTE TO
Lucien
three nights later.

So you are not to worry, my dear husband. I am determined to make the best of this lamentable coil. If Berthier seeks to check me by setting the Mameluke to guard me, why, I will not resist him. I know it is what he expects me to do, but I am not such a fool that I will fall prey to that ploy.

He has been told by several of the officers’ wives that it is not correct for him to assign an Egyptian soldier to guard a Frenchwoman, but he is not willing to listen to their objections. His defense is that we are at war and unusual measures are called for.

She turned the paper to the other side and continued, crossing her original lines with care. Her handwriting was very precise and she had trimmed the nib of her pen as fine as she could. She had little need to blot the page as she wrote, for the air was so dry that the ink often clogged the pen.

I have it in mind to attempt to bring the Mameluke to my side as an ally instead of a guard. He is loath to speak with women, but as I am supposed to instruct him in our ways, he has little choice. I confess that he frightened me at first, but now I am persuaded that he and I will deal extremely well together once we grow more accustomed to each other. But you have no reason to fear for me; this Roustam-Raza does not admire fair women. Only this morning he said I looked too much like the dead. He prefers his women dark and dusky, with large bodies soft as pillows. Not that he has said anything of the sort to me, but I have watched his eyes when the Egyptian women come to the camp and I know what I see.

She looked over the page and nodded her satisfaction. Her closing paragraph was much more personal; she felt herself flush as she put the words on the page. As she signed it, she decided to seal the letter properly, with wax instead of a wafer, so that if it were read, Vernet would know.

At the door of her tent she found Roustam-Raza waiting, sitting on a mat on the sand. He watched her, unspeaking.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she inquired, no longer troubled by his ferocious scowl.

“I have been ordered to keep watch on you,” he answered.

“It is after nine, and half the camp is sleeping,” she said, holding her letter tightly.

“You are not,” said Roustam-Raza.

“True, but I will be shortly, as soon as I return from handing this to the Jaffa courier,” she said.

The Mameluke got to his feet. “I will come with you.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Victoire, her eyes bright with annoyance. “It’s only a short distance.”

“Nevertheless, I will come,” said Roustam-Raza.

She shrugged. “As you wish.” It was useless to argue with him, she knew from experience. But she was determined not to speak with him, a silence which she maintained until they passed Berthier’s tent, where she saw that the general’s aide was just mounting his horse, a cloak wrapped around him. “Another one of his mysterious missions to Cairo,” she said to Roustam-Raza, “I wish I knew what they were for.”

Roustam-Raza pursed his lips. “There are women. And boys.”

Victoire did not quite laugh; she shook her head in dismissal. “He claims to be in love with a married woman. He does not speak her name for fear of dishonoring her.”

“It is wrong to love a married woman,” said Roustam-Raza. “Women are not made for such loving. Men are made so that they can have more than one woman.”

“Not in France, they’re not,” said Victoire with asperity. “Not that there are not times it might be best,” she added in a more thoughtful way as they continued to the tent where the couriers were dispatched.

Behind them Berthier headed off into the darkness.

“You see!” approved Roustam-Raza. “Not all French ways are for the best every time.” He slapped his wide, hard hand against his thigh. “Men should have women of their own, to give them sons of their own.”

“Berthier isn’t married,” said Victoire. “He hasn’t the time. I believe he fears the obligations of a family would compromise his duty to Napoleon.”

“He is right to worry. But he is wrong not to marry,” said Roustam-Raza, settling the matter.

As they came up to the dispatch tent, Victoire looked about with some anxiety. “The courier is supposed to leave before first light. I don’t want my husband to have to wait too long to have word from me.”

“You are a sensible woman,” said Roustam-Raza, and offered no further explanation.

“I strive to be,” she said, and made a sign to the corporal sitting in front of the tent. She handed him her letter and two coins. “In gratitude for a swift delivery,” she told him.

“Very good,” said the corporal, and tucked the letter into a crested saddlebag. He gave Roustam-Raza a swift, comprehensive glance, then made a notation on his roster. “Good evening, Madame Vernet.”

Victoire recognized the dismissal for what it was. “And to you, corporal.” She motioned to Roustam-Raza, and they started back toward her tent. As she walked, an idea burgeoned in her mind. Choosing her words very carefully, she said to the Mameluke, “I am troubled in my mind.”

“Women are often afflicted,” said Roustam-Raza.

“No, not that way,” she countered. “I am troubled by what Berthier is doing. I have heard him leave for Cairo on four different nights, and this causes me apprehension.”

“Why should it concern you?” asked Roustam-Raza, deeply puzzled.

“Because he has accused my husband of a crime. I know that my husband is innocent, and so I wish to discover who has done the crime. Since Berthier accuses him, I do not trust his motives. And now he rides to Cairo in secret. I cannot like it, Roustam-Raza.” She made herself speak very calmly, for any show of emotion would tum the Mameluke against her.

“Why should his movements have any bearing on your husband’s crime?” he asked, his interest piqued.

“Why should they not?” When he did not answer, she went on. “I have nowhere to begin, except with the man who accuses Vernet. He also knew of the object. And his own time is unaccounted for. If I can exonerate Berthier, then perhaps I can persuade him to investigate further. But if he is the one who has committed the crime, then he will do nothing to turn his accusation from my husband, and my husband will bear the burden of guilt that belongs to another.” She could not see well enough to read Roustam-Raza’s face, but she sensed a lessening in his disapproval. “If only I knew what he did in Cairo.”

“You tell me he has gone there often.” His tone was speculative, and his attitude no longer challenged her.

“Four times that I know of since Vernet left. Tonight is the fifth.” She wanted to say more but prudence dictated that she hold her tongue.

“Five times he has gone at night to Cairo,” mused Roustam-Raza, “And in so short a time. He has always gone alone?”

“As far as I know,” answered Victoire.

“And other officers? Do they go to Cairo in secret?”

Victoire smiled inwardly. “Not that I’m aware of. Occasionally three or four of them will go together, but I have not heard of anyone going there alone as Berthier does.” They were nearing her tent and she paused, looking up at him. “It troubles me.” She expected another Muslim aphorism about the minds of women and therefore was pleased when Roustam-Raza bit his lower lip in thought.

At last he said, “I think it troubles me, as well.”

* * *

It took her the better part of a week to persuade Roustam-Raza to take her to Cairo the next time Berthier went there.

“You would be in great danger there. Frenchwomen are not welcome in Cairo unless they are with their men,” he argued the first time she brought her project up.

“But how am I to find out what he is doing if I don’t follow him? You will not leave me unguarded to see where he goes, so it must be my task to watch him. And you will watch me.” She favored him with a small nod of approval, as if he could not fault her logic.

“A woman alone might be kidnapped. It occurs there. If you were kidnapped, you would probably be sold. Once that happened, there would be nothing I or any of the French could do to save you. The Pasha himself could not demand your return.” His black eyes showed a shine of concern, which heartened her.

“That is why you will be with me. Who would dare to kidnap me if I am with a Mameluke?” It was her final point and she saw that she had his attention.

He scowled. “It would be very dangerous.”

“Roustam-Raza, my husband is accused of a serious crime. The crime would disgrace him if he’s found guilty. I cannot sit idly by and do nothing. If there’s danger for me, think how much greater the danger is for him.” She raised her chin stubbornly, daring him to refuse her.

“I will consider it,” he informed her.

The second time she discussed it with him, she found him more tractable.

“It would not be wise to go at night.” He folded his arms, intending to make her reconsider.

“He does not usually return until noon of the following day. We will leave here before dawn and be in Cairo before he leaves, but after first light.” She cocked her head to the side. “Would that suit you?”

“There is a great risk,” he insisted.

“We’ve been through this, Roustam-Raza. If you have no other argument, then let us return to how you must conduct yourself during treaty or peace negotiations.” She reached for the notebook she carried, but allowed him to stop her.

“I do not want to be the one who must report your abduction. You are asking that of me.” His face was lined and worried. “It would disgrace me.”

“Then I’ll do my best not to be abducted,” Victoire said. “And I will depend on you to guard me well.”

Roustam-Raza flung his hands into the air. “Perhaps. Perhaps.”

Before Berthier made his next bolt to Cairo, Victoire had persuaded Roustam-Raza.

* * *

The desert ended abruptly perhaps three miles outside Cairo. Victoire was surprised at what a relief it was to see green, healthy plants again. There were none near the camp near Alexandria. Cairo itself was less appealing. Sprawling along the Nile, the city’s odor, a mixture of open sewers and spices, rivaled even the notorious smell of Paris after a thaw. All along the Nile they had passed small villages, the homes barely large enough to hold more than a few people at one time. Most were made of a gray or brown concrete or plaster that was comprised mostly of the abundant sand and shared its color. Many of the poorer homes, Victoire was astonished to notice, had no roofs. As they approached Cairo itself, the houses became larger, with elaborate decorations painted or carved into their walls.

The city itself had no walls, nor any real boundary. The buildings, now a mixture of homes, shops, and granaries, simply became more densely packed. Occasionally they would cross through a small courtyard, though none of the markets they sometimes housed were occurring. At Roustam-Raza’s request, Victoire was almost completely covered with robes borrowed from one of the camp followers who were beginning to appear even in this exotic land. With her in disguise, the Mameluke attracted much more attention, almost dread, and Victoire began to wonder just what their reign had been like.

They left their horses with the city garrison, entrusted to a Bernaise sergeant whose face was almost as long and soulful as the horses he tended. Cairo was a jumble of narrow streets, some almost too small for them to walk side by side. Only occasionally did they travel along a wide roadway, paved with large stone blocks. Several times they passed buildings whose age or design made them stand out from the others. A few of the savants that had accompanied the army were scurrying over one, measuring it and making sketches. Victoire almost stopped to chat with another Frenchman, but Roustam-Raza signalled they should keep moving.

While the streets were incredibly crowded, the crowd seemed to part for the Mameluke. The Frenchwoman also noted that even when there was almost no space for them to pass, the Egyptian peasants were careful to avoid even brushing against her. Their trek ended in a massive market that bordered the Nile. Occasionally a cool breeze off the water tempered the dry heat that made the air shimmer inside the merchant’s stalls. The clamor of bargaining, braying camels, and clanging pottery rose to a din that made talking difficult.

“You cannot expect to find Berthier in this crowd,” Roustam-Raza said to Victoire as they made their way through the booths of brass sellers. “You do not know where he is in the city.” He clapped his hands in aggravation. “You should never have come here. I was a fool to listen to you. There is no worth in the plans of women.”

“Do be quiet,” said Victoire as she tugged on his sleeve. “You’re attracting attention.”

“I am not. You are attracting attention. That yellow silk over your face fools no one. Your skin is white and your clothes can be seen whenever the breeze stirs the cloth. Everyone knows that you are French.” His accent was rougher, as if his frustration worked on his tongue.

“And you are making them certain of it, if they were in doubt,” she reminded him. She paused to stare at three enormous platters of hammered brass. At another time she would have been tempted to bargain with the vendor for such beautiful work. “Ask this man if he has seen Berthier.”