THE GENERALS

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I understand, but surely you would agree that all men should have the chance to free their talents from the chains of their social caste?’

  ‘If that was the will of Allah, then it would be so.’

  ‘If it is the will of men, then it is so,’ Napoleon countered. ‘And now that we have freed Egypt from the Mamelukes, it will be so here, as it is in France.’

  There was a tense silence as Muhammad el Hourad digested this and then translated it to the imam. The latter’s expression hardened into frank hostility and he muttered his reply to the sheikh.

  ‘He says that it would seem we have lost one oppressor only to have gained another.’

  Junot leaned forward and spoke earnestly.‘But we are not here to oppress. We are here to free your people.’

  ‘Free our people?’The sheikh pursed his lips. ‘Forgive me, but I am confused.You see, whenever Allah has been good enough to see that foreign newspapers reach us here in Cairo, I have read of the wars in Europe. I have heard of the exploits of the great General Bonaparte in Italy. I have heard how France has spread her rule over other countries and grown rich off the spoils of war.’ He paused and turned his gaze to Napoleon. ‘I ask myself how such conquests can spread liberty and - what are the words of your national motto?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘Ah yes, liberty, equality and fraternity. Is that not so?’

  ‘Those are the words.’

  ‘Then, forgive me, General. I am not a sophisticated man, and, as you have implied, this is not a civilised land, but I wonder how such fine principles can be delivered by the application of fire and the sword.’ He looked at Napoleon and raised his eyebrows, inviting a reply.

  Napoleon returned his gaze coldly. ‘France is at war with the tyrannies of Europe because they fear the example we have set. France would live in peace, but for the desire of other nations for war. When we have finally defeated our enemies we will be free to fully embrace the ideals that gave birth to the revolution. And we will be free to extend our ideals to other lands, far from Europe. As you pointed out, this is not a civilised land. One day it will be, under French guidance.’

  ‘Inshallah - if Allah wills it.’

  ‘Of course.’ Napoleon forced himself to smile. ‘Inshallah.’

  ‘Perhaps we are thinking too far ahead, General. After all, Murad Bey and his men are still in the field. Egypt is not conquered - pardon me, liberated - until Murad Bey and his Mamelukes are crushed. I fear that you will find he has many allies amongst the Arab tribes that he can call on to reinforce his army.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Napoleon shrugged. ‘But as you saw the other day, courage and numbers are no match for the discipline and firepower of a modern army. I have given orders for General Desaix here to complete the destruction of Murad Bey and his army.’

  Desaix bowed his head in acknowledgement and added confidently, ‘It will be the work of a few weeks, a few months at most.’

  ‘It is true that your men are more than a match for the Mamelukes,’ the sheikh agreed. ‘But I fear you will find that our land and our climate will be your real enemy.Yours is not the first European army to be defeated by the sun and the sand. You march in the shadow of the crusaders, and perhaps you will share their fate. It is possible that Allah has deemed these worthless lands to be the domain of less civilised peoples.’

  ‘We are here to stay,’ Napoleon replied firmly. ‘Desaix will defeat Murad Bey and the people of Egypt will embrace the opportunities that France extends to them.’

  ‘And for those who don’t accept those opportunities?’

  Napoleon’s expression hardened. ‘There will be no place for such men in the new order.’

  ‘I see.’ The sheikh nodded thoughtfully. ‘It occurs to me that should you drive Murad Bey out of Egypt, what is to stop him raiding us from neighbouring lands?’

  ‘There will be no safe haven for him, or any who resist the changes here in Egypt. If the need arises I will lead my army across the Sinai and up into Palestine and Syria.’

  ‘And on to Constantinople, perhaps?’

  ‘No. Even now, the French foreign minister, Monsieur Talleyrand, is concluding a treaty with the Sultan. Our two empires will soon become allies.’

  ‘If Allah wills it, though the Sultan might well regard the presence of French troops in Egypt, let alone Syria, with some concern, General. But, as you say, the French are a peace-loving people. I am sure the Sultan will see you for what you really are. Now, if you will permit me, I will take my leave. It has been a fine day, and a long day, and I am tired.’ The sheikh rose to his feet, and Napoleon and his officers quickly followed suit. There was a formal exchange of statements of friendship before the sheikh left the hall, followed by the other local men of influence, and the French officers were left to themselves.

  Berthier muttered, ‘That seemed to go well enough, sir. I didn’t get any sense they would cause us any trouble.’

  ‘It hardly matters if they do,’ Napoleon replied casually. ‘What could they achieve against muskets and cannon? No, they’ll soon see that any thought of resistance is futile, and once we begin to bring some order and efficiency to the public affairs of Egypt they’ll be only too pleased that we took control of their land.’

  Junot puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, let’s hope so, sir. But I can’t help thinking that opposition to France might just give them a cause to rally round.’

  Napoleon laughed. ‘Come now! They are a backward people, long accustomed to bowing before a constant flow of foreign overlords.They will bow to France just as readily. Gentlemen, I’ve had quite enough ceremony and polite behaviour today. It’s time to celebrate like soldiers!’

  The mess servants cleared away the remains of the banquet and brought out the wine and brandy that had been landed from the ships safely anchored in Aboukir Bay and brought up the Nile to Cairo. With the warmth of the eastern night and several rounds of toasts, Napoleon and most of his officers were soon quite drunk. And why not, he thought. The campaign was as good as over. Only the remnants of Murad Bey’s army needed to be tracked down and crushed and Egypt would be the latest conquest to adorn the map of the French empire.

  As the night drew on, the conversation became more reflective as the officers began to remind themselves of all the comforts that had been denied to them since coming ashore.

  Berthier raised his glass. ‘A good bath, clean sheets and a woman to take your mind off soldiering. That’s my toast.’

  The other officers chorused their agreement.Then they grew quiet as their commander held up his glass. ‘Gentlemen, to French women. They have no peer when it comes to beauty, grace and wit.And they make love with a passion that makes men their slaves.’

  As his companions roared their approval and clashed their glasses together Napoleon felt his heart ache with longing for Josephine. His hand fumbled for the minature that hung round his neck and he stared at the image, gently caressing it with his thumb. The artist had captured her lively spirit in the eyes that seemed to glint mischievously as he stared at them. However, he knew that if he indulged in such reflection for too long he was in danger of becoming melancholy, so he forced himself to smile and raise his glass again.

  ‘To our lovers, to our wives and to my beautiful, adoring wife Josephine.’

  Again the officers cheered and drank. Junot refilled his cup, and blearily turned to some nearby officers and said, too loudly, ‘To our wives, whoever they adore!’

  Some of the officers exchanged embarrassed looks while others heedlessly drank to Junot’s toast. Junot turned to Napoleon with a broad smile, and froze. Napoleon was looking at him with an angry expression.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Just now. What did you say?’

  ‘To our wives . . .’ Junot mumbled. ‘Whoever they adore.’

  ‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. It was a joke. Nothing more.’

  ‘A joke?’ Napoleon sat his glass down w
ith a sharp rap. He felt light headed and his mind concentrated with difficulty. Slowly the conversation of the other officers died away as they turned towards their general with curious faces. Napoleon stepped up to Junot and stabbed a finger into his chest. ‘Are you insulting my wife, Junot? You dishonour her. How dare you say that about her?’ The fond affection of a moment earlier had gone. In its place was an injured drunken pride, and Napoleon clenched his fist and thrust it behind his back where it could not be so readily used. ‘Say it again, if you dare.’

  Junot shook his head as the blood drained from his face. ‘Sir, I wasn’t thinking. I meant no offence.’

  ‘No offence!’ Napoleon spat. ‘You imply my wife is being unfaithful, and you say that you mean no offence.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Junot attempted to stand stiffly to attention. ‘I beg you to accept my apology.’

  ‘No. I will not.You slander the woman I love, who loves me, and you think a mere apology will suffice? I think not, Junot. I think that you should leave me. Leave my staff. Leave my army and take yourself home. I will not have you near me.’ Suddenly, his temper snapped and his clenched fist swept out, and he punched Junot hard in the face.

  Everyone stood quite still, shocked by the confrontation and the sound of the impact that echoed back from the walls. Napoleon was drawing his arm back to hit him again when Berthier intervened, thrusting Junot aside and standing between him and Napoleon.

  ‘Sir! That’s enough!’

  Napoleon glared at him, wide eyed. ‘You dare to come between me and this foul-mouthed brute? I’ll break you with him. You and anyone who dishonours my wife with such lies. Anyone who can think that of Josephine.’

  ‘Then you will have to find a replacement for every man at headquarters,’ Berthier said desperately.

  ‘What?’ Napoleon felt a sick feeling well up in his stomach. ‘What are you saying? What are you saying about my wife?’

  Berthier’s face twisted into a pained expression and for a moment words failed him.Then he swallowed and spoke.‘Sir . . . she has a lover.’

  ‘A lover?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Napoleon thought he was going to be sick, and bit down, clamping his lips together. His first instinct was to reject the idea, but then doubts rushed in to fill his mind like winter shadows. ‘Who, then? Who is this lover? Tell me!’

  ‘His name is Hippolyte Charles.’

  ‘Charles? The cavalry officer who came with her to Italy?’

  Berthier nodded.

  Napoleon’s mind instantly leaped back to those times where he had encountered Josephine in the young officer’s company, and his heart felt as if it was locked in a cold vice. Doubt edged towards certainty and he looked round the hall at the other officers. ‘Who else knows?’

  Berthier shifted uncomfortably. ‘It is known to most of Paris, sir. Has been for several months.’

  ‘Months . . .’ Napoleon lowered his head. All hope was fading, and in its place a tide of rage and, worse, shame engulfed him. If Paris society knew of this infidelity, had known of it for months, then he would be a laughing stock.They would look at him with the same cruel, amused contempt that was reserved for all cuckolded husbands. They would be laughing at him behind his back. He felt his cheeks burn as he realised that the grand reputation he had been trying to build for himself, and for Josephine, was worthless if she was so openly entertaining a lover while her husband was away at war.Then he raged at himself for not seeing it before. For being blinded by his love for her, his unquestioning belief in her devotion to him. He was worse than any lovesick boy and the knowledge burned into him like a heated iron and he slumped down on a cushion.

  Berthier glanced round at the other officers and nodded towards the entrance to the banquet hall. Silently, the men began to drift away, slowly emptying the chamber until at last only Berthier and Junot remained with him. Junot, who had served with Napoleon through so many dangers and adventures, felt compelled to offer some comfort to his friend. He reached his hand tentatively towards Napoleon’s shoulder and then hesitated, horrified by the enormity of what he was on the verge of doing. No general could show weakness. Before Junot could commit such an unpardonable transgression of the written and unwritten codes that exist between a commander and his subordinate officers, Napoleon glanced up, eyes red and glistening as he struggled to fight back the grief that threatened to overwhelm him.

  ‘Get out. Both of you.’

  Junot withdrew his hand. ‘Sir, I just wanted—’

  ‘Get out!’ Napoleon screamed at him.‘You heard me! Get out and leave me alone! Now!’

  Junot recoiled nervously and made his way over to the great doors at the entrance to the chamber. For a moment Berthier tried to think of some words of consolation, but what can one man say when faced with another’s betrayed love? It was too painful, too personal, for tokens of comfort. So he turned to follow Junot, and closed the door softly behind him, leaving Napoleon sitting on his cushion, nursing his head on his arms. For a long time he stared at the floor tile between his boots and then his vision blurred as the first tears, which he had failed to fight off, welled up in his eyes. He pressed the palms of his hands against his face and at last gave in to his grief and rage.

  For several days Napoleon rarely emerged from his quarters in the palace. It was hard to bear the shame of being almost the last man to know the truth about Josephine’s treachery. He sensed that those around him regarded him with a mixture of pity and amusement, even though they struggled to hide their feelings. Soon the rest of the army would hear the rumours, if they hadn’t already, and their laughter would echo that of Paris society. The great general who commanded France’s armies and conquered her enemies, yet could not control his wife. Nor satisfy her as a man should. That Josephine should prefer a foolish, vacant-headed cavalry officer to him fell on his heart like a great weight. The recent victory, and all the others before, seemed no more than insignificant details now, and his immediate ambitions seemed futile and pointless. In an attempt to work through the dark thoughts whirling through his mind, Napoleon forced himself to write a letter to Joseph.

  The words came slowly and painfully as he set down his feelings. ‘Glory is stale when I am only twenty-nine. I have achieved everything a man can in this life. And now there is nothing left for me but to become really and completely selfish . . .’

  He looked at the last word on the page with loathing and despair. He must not let himself sink into a well of self-pity.There would be time for that later, when he returned to Paris and confronted Josephine. Meanwhile an army stood by, waiting for his orders. The fate of twenty-five thousand Frenchmen, and the future of an empire, lay in his hands.

  Very well then, he decided. He would harden his heart and pursue his goals with utter ruthlessness. Every enemy he killed, every army he crushed, would be dedicated to Josephine and those who mocked him.

  Napoleon led the army out of Cairo early in August. Ignoring Murad Bey and his Mamelukes for the moment, he tracked down the large host of ragged and poorly armed foot soldiers under Ibrahim Bey. Napoleon’s men had been issued with new, lighter uniforms and were accompanied by hundreds of commandeered carts and camels carrying casks of water. He marched them hard, driving Ibrahim Bey before him, until he caught up with the enemy at Salalieh. There was no battle to speak of, merely a bloody massacre as wave after wave of the fellahin conscripts were cut down by musket fire and grapeshot, until their bodies covered the ground before the ranks of the French soldiers. When, at last, the shattered remnants of Ibrahim Bey’s army broke and ran, there were few cries of triumph from the French ranks. Most men simply stared out across the piles of peasant bodies and blood-spattered sand in numbed horror.

  ‘This is not war,’ Berthier said quietly. ‘It is murder.’

  Napoleon sniffed.‘It is neither.This is what victory looks like. The sooner our men get used to this the sooner our task in the east will be complete and they can go home.To which end, give the order for the
pursuit of the enemy. Take command here, Berthier. Keep after them. Push the men as hard as you can, and there must be no mercy shown to the enemy. None, do you hear? I want the survivors to spread word of what happens to those who choose to oppose us. Then next time this can be avoided.’ He gestured towards the battlefield.‘Now I must return to Cairo. Send me word of your progress.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Berthier saluted.

  Napoleon wheeled his horse round and rode back to headquarters. He ate quickly as his mounted escort was assembled, and then they set off along the route back to Cairo. They had only ridden for two hours when they saw a small dust cloud on the track ahead of them. Napoleon reined in as the guides fanned out around him, ready to draw their sabres. As the other group approached Napoleon realised it was merely a dispatch rider accompanied by a handful of dragoons, and the tension eased amongst his men as they resumed their formation at his back. As the horses galloped up, foaming at the mouths and flanks heaving from their hard ride, the messenger made straight for Napoleon. His expression left no doubt that something terrible had occurred.