“Are we getting close to their territory?”
“My friend, look around.” Ashar raised his arms, embracing the entirety of the desert. “It is all their territory.”
André nodded, thinking a moment before he continued. “I have served under many generals in my time. Some were truly great; others were not. But this Bonaparte fellow is unlike anyone I have ever seen. He fears nothing and yields to no one. He moves his armies faster than many men would think possible. And the men who were with him in Italy seem to have some sort of”—André laughed in spite of himself, reaching for his words as he plucked a handful of river grasses—“some sort of inexplicable devotion to him, as though he were a god. I’m not sure how all of this will end, but I find myself thinking—believing—that as long as Napoleon Bonaparte leads this army, we will be victorious.”
Ashar held his friend’s gaze before turning his eyes back toward the flowing river. He cupped a pebble in his hand, which he now tossed into the water. “It will be up to God,” Ashar said, “and the desert.”
July 1798
After two weeks of marching, the camp pulsed with an unmistakable hum of excitement; word spread that evening, moving among the men in hushed but urgent whispers, that they had nearly reached Giza, the riverside city of pyramids just across the Nile from Cairo.
Ashar, with his seemingly endless knowledge of Egyptian lore, was the most sought-after man around the campfires that night, where he regaled the men with tales of the afterlife and the ancient belief that each soul crossed a river at the end of his days to dwell among the immortals.
André, like dozens of others, sat before his friend, listening. Tonight Ashar was describing to the soldiers a large monument, not far from the great pyramids, that bore the body of a lion and the head of a man. “We call him the Sphinx,” Ashar said, to dozens of rapt faces. “And he guards the Valley of the Kings from any who would seek to plunder the pharaohs’ wealth.”
“Major Valière?”
André turned at the sound of his name and saw one of the cavalry orderlies cutting through the camp. “Yes?”
“Major Valière?” The aide squinted, his face visible in the glow of the surrounding campfires. “The general has requested your presence at Commander Bonaparte’s briefing, sir.”
“Which general?” André asked.
“General Dumas.”
André recognized only Dumas and Murat among the officers assembled in Bonaparte’s command tent. The group numbered perhaps thirty, the commanders of various divisions and their aides clustered obediently behind them. General Bonaparte sat at a desk sprawled with maps, letters, and troop reports. He wore spectacles as he examined a parchment, undistracted by the growing murmur of the assembled group.
Perhaps a minute or so later, General Bonaparte removed the spectacles perched atop his narrow nose and rubbed his eyes; all side conversations ceased.
The general opened his eyes and spoke: “Citizen Fourier, what was it that you described to me earlier? Something about the mathematical genius it would have taken to build that grand pyramid that stands less than four leagues away?”
The man addressed stepped forward. André noticed that he was not in uniform like the soldiers and officers, but rather in plain clothing. He was one of Napoleon’s scholars, André guessed, one of the hundreds of scientists and mathematicians selected by the general to accompany the army on this march, to explore and record what the French found in this storied desert kingdom.
Citizen Fourier cleared his throat before answering. “Sir, the ancients possessed a thorough understanding of ratios and triangles; that is to say, they had a significant understanding of geometric principles.”
General Bonaparte flashed a brief smile. “Yes, Fourier, that has become apparent to many of us by now.” Some of the officers laughed at their commander’s quip. “But, citizen, you told me how this great structure appeared at its origin.”
“Yes, sir. At the time of its creation, it would have been covered with highly polished limestone, reflecting the sun’s light and shining like a jewel. The original pyramid would have acted like a gigantic mirror, reflecting light so powerfully as to be visible even from the heavens, a shining star on earth.”
“A shining star on earth.” The general stood up now and paced slowly before his desk. “And tomorrow, it shall be ours.” Bonaparte’s eyes flashed with an unmistakable zeal as he looked at the men assembled before him.
“My fellow soldiers and countrymen, we are on the eve of a battle that will be recalled by posterity among the likes of Alexander, Caesar, and Rameses the Great. We have crossed the sea of the Roman Empire and traversed the sands of Africa to meet a great and ancient foe. We are here not merely to advance the cause of France and the Republic of our people. No, we are here to enhance the glory of all civilization.” The general paused, letting his words take root. The tent was silent now, and all eyes, including André’s, were fixed on the young commander.
“Like our forebears of antiquity, we travel east because that is where all great men go. Great deeds are done by men who possess the boldness to travel to lands deemed unconquerable by others and master what it is they fear. Men, very soon you and your soldiers will leave your mark on history, and it is up to you to decide what that will be.”
With that, the supreme commander gazed around the tent once more. Seemingly satisfied with the impact of his words, he crossed back to his chair and took his seat. “General Kléber has informed me that our fleet remains safely moored off Aboukir Bay, with no sign of the English or that bogeyman Admiral Nelson. So the unfortunate situation of our resupply should abate soon. Furthermore, our ships traveling up the Nile with Captain Perrée should be here in a day, so the mutinous talk that has plagued this army since we left the comfort of Alexandria will cease, and you as commanders will ensure it stops at once.” With that, the general sighed and motioned a hand toward the assembly. “General Dumas, you look like one who has seen a ghost. Do the mummies lurking in their tombs frighten you?”
Dumas shifted from one foot to the other as, around him, small sputters of laughter popped up.
“These desert savages wouldn’t harm a fellow African,” General Murat said with a snicker, glancing sideways toward Dumas.
If Dumas heard Murat’s goading, he ignored it, for his gaze remained fixed on the man at the front of the tent. “Sir, it is not the dead who concern me.”
General Dumas took a cautious step forward. “General, with all deference due to your command…” Dumas paused briefly, considering his next words. “I fear that the men—to say nothing of the horses—are not prepared for this kind of warfare.”
The others in the tent became suddenly silent, all stifled laughter dissipating. General Dumas lowered his voice as he continued, and André could hardly believe his boldness: “Our enemy hovers at our flanks, striking where we are weak and vulnerable, then simply vanishes back into the desert, where our men do not wish to go. Our supply lines grow more vulnerable each day, and our reserves of water are now almost nonexistent. The soldiers have marched for weeks without bread, and those who have taken food from the Arab villages have been shot. We cannot sustain this. Perhaps if we sent an emissary to Cairo we could—”
“I thank you for your report.” Bonaparte raised a hand as he fixed an intense stare on his much taller subordinate. “And I will remind you again that matters of strategy are not counted among your duties. You will leave that to me.”
“Sir,” Dumas continued undeterred, “my soldiers and this expedition are suffering, and our situation grows worse by the day. Furthermore, it’s suffering that is unnecessary and entirely avoidable. I firmly request—”
“Enough!” General Bonaparte pounded his desk with his fist, his face turning crimson. Dumas stood rigid before him, unmoving. The tension inside the tent was now almost unbearable, and André wondered whether this confrontation would turn violent. After a moment, the commander turned his head and signaled to the assembled offic
ers. “Thank you, gentlemen, that will be all. Now get out. You”—he signaled a hand toward Dumas—“you stay.”
The officers quickly shuffled out of the tent, few daring to speak even after they had exited into the cool evening. As André turned back toward his billet he could hear muffled shouts coming from the command tent. He admired General Dumas for speaking so frankly on behalf of the men but imagined any dissent to be futile at this stage.
He noticed the soft sound of footsteps trailing behind him and turned. “Who’s there?”
A figure approached, concealed by the darkness of the desert night. “So it is you, Valière.” The voice kindled instant recognition. Murat.
André had not seen the man up close during the long march, not since the shooting on the riverbank. He felt tempted now to reach for his sword but suppressed the urge. He took a breath and turned to face his tormentor. “General Murat, good evening.”
The two men looked at each other as the shadows from the surrounding tents and campfires flickered around them. “So, now that you are Major Valière, you attend our commander’s briefings. You’ve always seemed to put yourself into the thick of it.”
André forced a tight-lipped, bitter smile. “Despite being denounced, imprisoned, and losing my family, I am still here, General.”
“I must admit, a very small part of me almost admires you.” Murat rubbed the hilt of his sword. “You’re not easily broken.”
André remained silent; he did not intend to antagonize his tormenter on the eve of a great battle, but he felt a steady surge of painful memory as he stood so close to the man who had taken everything from him. Part of him hoped that the coming storm would be final, for one of them.
Murat shifted his weight, peering out over the vast, darkened landscape. “You think I hate you because of your affection for my Sophie.” For the first time since André could remember—perhaps in their entire acquaintance—Murat acknowledged the woman they both cared for, the woman whose love André would no longer deny.
André crossed his arms before his chest, the sound of her name spoken aloud stirring his blood. “In truth, I don’t know why you hate me, General.”
When Murat leaned close, his gray eyes caught a glint of light, shining with a hatred that disarmed André. “I won’t let another Valière take my loved one from me…not this time. Not ever again.” The general hissed this threat, but his words gave André no further understanding or clarity.
André broke from his commander’s gaze, his mind spinning. He accuses me of taking his loved ones, André thought to himself, utterly confounded. Suddenly, blinking, he saw the faces of those he loved clearly in his mind’s eye: His father, reading in his study, distant and dignified, aristocratic to the very end. His mother, walking with her boys in the orchards behind their estate, her laughter mingling with early-morning birdsong. Remy, smiling, a mischievous shimmer in his eye as he charmed his way out of trouble. Jean-Luc St. Clair, his friend, earnest and steadfast though all the world crumbled around him. Sophie. Always, Sophie. André had no idea where she was or how she fared in this mad world, but if she was alive, then he knew he must somehow find a way back to her. As long as he still breathed, he would fight to return to her, to the only home he had left.
Murat took a step closer, and André’s thoughts clamored back to the present. Murat was just before him, his face inches away. André could smell the odor of the general’s weathered uniform. “Do you have any idea what he did? What your old man did?”
Before André could stammer out a confused reply, both men were startled by the interruption of a third voice. “Everything all right here?”
Murat turned toward the approaching figure and muttered, “None of your concern, Dumas.”
“Actually, I was looking for Major Valière. Major, a word, if you wouldn’t mind?”
“Not now,” Murat said dismissively, angling his large frame between the two men. “I am speaking to Valière at the moment.”
“I can see that,” Dumas said, unfazed. “Only I have orders from our high commander himself that concern the young officer. So I’m afraid I’ll have to interrupt. Major, come with me, if you would.”
Murat fell quiet at this, his eyes darting back and forth from Dumas to André, apparently unsure how to react. If, in fact, Dumas did have business with André that came directly from Bonaparte, it would not be prudent to interfere with it—even Murat knew as much. And yet, he clearly had not decided whether he believed Dumas’s claim. Finally, with a low growl, Murat acquiesced, turning and skulking off into the dark camp without another word. André watched his retreating frame with relief, even though he knew that whatever business they had was far from over.
“Right this way.” Dumas led André in silence until they came to a small canvas tent on the southern edge of the camp. Dumas lifted the flap and entered, waving André to follow him.
Inside, the air was hot and still. Dumas lit a candle and gestured for André to take a seat in the lone wooden chair beside the camp bed. Dumas lowered himself onto the cot.
“Join me for a moment.” The general poured two small glasses of fresh water. Then, as if skimming the thoughts directly from André’s mind, he spoke: “I don’t actually have a message for you from General Bonaparte.” Dumas gulped his water and placed his empty glass on the table. “It just appeared that you might need assistance back there with General Murat. He can be…difficult.”
André nodded, eagerly finishing his own glass and lowering it to the table. His mind spun as he recalled the previous hour’s events, the vague and indecipherable remarks by Murat. “In that case…thank you, sir. And thank you for the drink of water. I should go and let you—”
“Stay, stay a moment,” Dumas said, raising his hand. “Was I correct?”
“Pardon?”
“Did you need saving? Back there with Nic…er, General Murat?”
André considered the question. “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure what General Murat wanted with me. I’ve never understood—”
“It should come as no surprise to you when I tell you that you are not one of General Murat’s favorites.”
André blinked, absorbing the declaration. Dumas continued, his face frank and expressionless. “You knew that already.”
André nodded. “I…I did.”
Dumas shrugged, waving his hands as if to swat a fly. “Foolish, all of it. Egypt cares very little for the grievances and grudges of a few feuding Frenchmen.”
“But, sir, that’s just it. I’m not certain what his grudge with me is,” André confessed. “I had the…poor luck to fall in love with his niece, yes. But his grievance with me predates my acquaintance with Sophie, of that I’m sure. I’ve had the feeling that General Murat has hated me since the moment he first set eyes on me at Valmy—perhaps even before. I know that sounds odd.”
“Not odd at all.” Dumas shook his head, pouring himself another glass of water. He refilled André’s glass as well. “In fact, you’re entirely correct.”
“I am?”
“Yes. Nicolai Murat has hated you your entire life. Perhaps even longer.”
André did not attempt to conceal his confusion at hearing it confirmed, this bald and unequivocal hatred that he had always suspected. And by a senior officer, no less. “But what have I done? Why does he hate me?”
Dumas took a long, slow sip and smacked his lips, weighing his words. Eventually, he answered: “Nicolai Murat hates you because you are the son of Alexandre, Marquis de Valière.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut, punching the air from André. When he did not answer, Dumas continued. “You might recall a bit of my story—that I am the son of a French nobleman and his Haitian mistress?”
“Yes,” André said, nodding, thinking back to the first evening he’d met General Dumas, in his prison cell onboard the ship in the middle of the Mediterranean.
Dumas’s mind was elsewhere now, his gaze falling on the far side of the tent as he explained: “My fathe
r’s title and wealth were enough to gain me entry into society. I made acquaintances and struck up friendships among many different circles. Many of the nobles are now gone, fled abroad or lost their heads. But some remain. Some of these individuals knew your father from the royal court, others from the academy at Brienne.”
“Brienne.” André repeated the name: the place of his own military schooling, and of his father before him.
“Brienne.” Dumas nodded. “Where all our finest officers receive their training. I myself did not have the privilege of attending. I’m an old corporal despite this uniform and all its frills. However, I did make the acquaintance of Nicolai Murat, as well as a particularly promising graduate by the name of Alexandre de Valière.”
André absorbed all of this, his thoughts becoming clearer. So they went to the academy together, his father and Murat. Did Murat still harbor some schoolboy resentment from all those years ago? Was he now determined to enact revenge on his rival’s son?
“But it wasn’t at Brienne that the rift occurred,” Dumas said, pulling André’s focus back to their conversation. “You come from an ancient noble family, André. You need not be reminded of that. Why, your family has ruled vast swaths of the north going back to the Norman Conquest.”
André nodded. Such talk was dangerous—life threatening, even. And yet, he trusted that Dumas did not say it in a damning way.
“My father’s family is similarly ennobled,” Dumas continued. “Not so with the Murat family. Their nobility is not ancient. Not even more than a generation old.”
“It isn’t?”
Dumas shook his head. “Murat’s father bought his title; he did not inherit it. He’s not what one—say, my father, or your father—would call a true noble.”
“But he…General Murat hates the nobility,” André replied, recalling all the times his superior had spewed his disgust against the aristocracy of the nation, and the vehemence with which Murat had persecuted and punished the noble class.
Dumas shrugged. “And now perhaps you can understand why.”
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