Where the Light Falls

by Allison Pataki

  General Bonaparte rode out, pausing in front of his army. André sat up a bit taller in his saddle.

  “Men, today, our enemy will finally meet the soldiers of France!” Napoleon held his reins in one hand; his other held his bicorn hat aloft. “Remember, from atop those pyramids, forty centuries of history look down upon you. For the Republic! For France!”

  André looked past the figure of their high commander toward the south, toward the wall of Mamelukes, assembling before a range of desert mountains. And then he realized: those were not mountains behind the Mamelukes. Those were buildings. Jagged, mountain-like buildings, rising up to the heavens in a proportion that defied reason and belief—that defied anything André would have ever believed achievable by mankind.

  “The great pyramids,” André gasped. Earth-colored fortresses that housed the remains of Egypt’s ancient pharaohs, leaders who had slept in their massive tombs since time immemorial. And now, on this day, these unfathomable structures would stand impassive, witness to a desert landscape where more men would join the pharaohs in permanent rest.

  July 1798

  Daylight shone strong enough now to make clear the army they faced: a host of thousands of Mamelukes. The fighters sat atop lean Arabian horses, a massive and uninterrupted wall stretching across the southern horizon. The river formed the French army’s left flank and the shimmering heat of the desert their right. Beyond them, barely visible in the distance, loomed the Great Pyramid of Khufu and its sisters. To André, they seemed out of place, too sacred for this gritty and soon to be bloody battlefield.

  The Mameluke line glistened in the distance; unlike the French, covered in dark blue with red and white, the Mameluke horsemen were a rhapsody of color. Armored plates were strapped across their chests, inlaid with sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones. Egret feathers rose from elaborately turbaned heads. Gilded helmets caught the rays of sunlight, glinting brighter than the Nile. The warriors brandished spears, sabers, lances, daggers—each one encrusted in precious stones and elaborate jewels.

  “Valière!”

  André turned to the familiar voice of General Dumas. “Yes, sir?”

  “Your squadron will fall in with Desaix’s square, on the western flank.”

  “Yes, sir.” André directed his men, ordering them to fold into the massive square.

  “Good, now you’ll come with me,” Dumas roared, and then rode off without looking back to ensure André followed. They raced farther to the west, André unclear of what he would be doing.

  Dumas joined a party of about fifty horsemen—dragoons and chasseurs. As André tried to blink away the glare from the shining breastplates, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Murat was there. He wore his usual stern expression, his eyes gazing out over the scene unfolding before them. André saluted. “General Murat.” The general touched the front of his hat to acknowledge the salute.

  André turned back toward the river and the waiting Mameluke horde. Over the sound of the French bugles and the shouts of French officers rose another more frightening sound: the trilling of the Mameluke warriors, readying themselves for battle.

  Their leader now emerged from the ranks of his horsemen and presented himself for both armies to see. As he rode out in front of his army, he paused, unsheathing his scimitar. When he faced his army, his sword whirling above his head, his fighters began to roar with frenzied war cries. Horns blasting from across the Mameluke lines added to the din, and André wondered if there was a soldier among the French who was unmoved by this spectacle.

  Perhaps one among them remained entirely undistracted, entirely focused on the French movement; as the enemy worked themselves into battle lust, Napoleon Bonaparte steadily eyed the sea of horsemen in front of him. He ordered the French to put three hundred paces between squares, a distance large enough to mitigate friendly fire concerns but narrow enough to create the deadly crossfire that would pour into the Mameluke lines from both directions as they tried to encircle the French. General Bonaparte lifted his sword and gave the signal.

  The massive French squares began to march. As the drummers and fifes kept time, the soldiers moved in perfect unison, the great squares advancing forward in one steady motion. Dust churned at their feet as they moved toward their enemy; André marveled at the discipline required to carry out this complex maneuver and wondered if even some of the Mamelukes were transfixed by this bizarre configuration marching toward them.

  Not to be outdone, the Mameluke leader lifted his scimitar over his head and, in one fluid motion, dropped it to his front. At this, a tidal wave of Mameluke horsemen began speeding down the gently sloping sand, racing toward the French squares. André was gripped by a momentary feeling of helplessness; this cavalry charge appeared unstoppable, the proud Arabian horses carrying thousands of bellowing warriors directly to the French line, their armor and swords glistening in the stark white sunlight.

  As the wave of Mamelukes chewed up the gap between the two armies, the French squares stood fixed, a wall of flesh and steel. Steady. Individual soldiers shook with fear, but the formation held firm. And then, as the Arabian horses thundered less than fifty paces from the French squares, the order was shouted and a deafening burst ripped out from the front of each square. Muskets cracked in unison and the cannons positioned at the corners of the squares poured a devastating hail of grapeshot and lead into the charging horde of men and horses. Horses screamed and fell, many of their riders trampled by the ranks thundering past them. Those beasts that hadn’t been hit began to buck and swerve at the sight of the French bayonets so densely stacked together. The lucky riders who were yet unhurt weaved their horses between the squares and were caught in ruinous crossfire that tore into them from both sides. Now, they became stranded as the French shifted to funnel all of these riders toward the reedy banks of the river.

  André watched this unfold from within his square, astonished by the carnage of this first assault. On the French left flank, the soldiers nearest to the river were dispersing the square. The battalions wheeled slowly apart and formed back into three conventional infantry lines. There, under the commander General Bon, the division formed up for a counterattack. Like sheepherders, Bon’s division fenced in the disoriented and scattered Mamelukes, funneling them and their horses toward the river. This was the tactical genius of Napoleon Bonaparte at work; he had harnessed not only thousands of men and tons of steel but even nature itself to his purposes. Rifles and bayonets stabbing outward, the division offered the Mamelukes a grim choice: be gutted by French steel or throw themselves into the flowing waters of the Nile.

  A large part of the Mameluke cavalry took their chances with the Nile, spurring their skittish horses into the river. Those who chose to stand and fight were methodically felled with bayonet thrusts.

  Along this bank of the river stood a small cluster of clay buildings, a deserted fishing village from the looks of it. The attacking Frenchmen now swarmed this outcropping of buildings, taking cover behind the structures to fire on the Mamelukes who struggled in the nearby river. The horses splashed and plunged like sea serpents as the glorious glint of all of those precious stones went dull in the dark water. Hundreds were pulled under by the current. It appeared so far to André as if not a single Frenchman had perished, while the Mamelukes were literally being carried away in the current.

  “All right, men!” The sound of General Dumas’s voice pulled André’s attention from the distant carnage back to his immediate surroundings. “Enough spectating. It’s our turn.” The general’s eyes flashed with a wild light as he spoke.

  “If we let that rear group retreat”—Dumas pointed his sword to the south, near the base of the mountainous pyramids—“they’ll regroup and attack us later.” Sure enough, in the distance was a cloud of dust, churned up by the band of Mameluke cavalry that had survived the squares and had splintered off to flee to the relative safety of the southern desert.

  “Cavalry, advance!” Dumas shouted, kicking his
horse in the sides. André, Murat, and the others followed. The cavalry hidden inside the squares now began to emerge and rode to join Dumas’s charge. The horsemen cut a wide arc around the periphery of the French line, approaching the pyramids from the west.

  From up close, the ancient structures appeared even more staggering—impossible in their width and height. André could not help but gawk as they approached the base of the nearest pyramid. But his eyes were quickly pulled from the pyramid to the desert in front of him; a group of enemy horsemen who had lain in wait behind the pyramids now rode out, taking the French completely by surprise. At this close distance, the ferocity of their battle cries was even more chilling. The numbers here were more favorable for the Mamelukes, with no river to fence them in against French rifles and bayonets.

  “Follow me!” General Dumas raised his sword and turned his horse to meet the oncoming enemy. The front of the French squadron smashed into the Mameluke cavalry. In this melee, sand and dust churned up in all directions. André wiped his stinging eyes in order to see the enemy before him.

  The first two enemy horses flew past him before he had time to swing his saber. A third slowed his pace as he rode toward André. He met the Mameluke’s scimitar and just barely parried the strike, slashing back as his horse sidestepped another rider racing past.

  The warrior struck again, this time swinging overhead, and André fended off the enemy’s slash with his own saber. His horse lurched back, knocking André temporarily off balance. André looked down, surprised by the sudden movement, and saw that a Mameluke pistol shot had struck his horse in the chest.

  André swore as he felt the horse stumble, struggling desperately to stay on its feet. Capitalizing on this distraction, the Mameluke slashed at André, the blade just barely missing his right shoulder. Beneath him, André’s horse grunted in agonizing pain, pawing at the earth with legs that André knew would soon give out. He wheeled his horse around, willing it to carry him out of the melee. If he fell here, he would be easy prey for the slashing blades and crushing hooves that thrashed all around him.

  With a painful effort, the horse obeyed. The horse limped for several paces, clearing mount and rider from the clash of flesh and steel. At a distance André deemed safe enough for a quick pause, he dismounted and looked at his beast. The creature was screeching in agony, losing blood at an unsustainable pace, and so André pulled out his pistol and took mercy on the poor animal. Now he was without a horse in a mounted engagement, far from friendly lines. At least he still had his pistol and his saber. He dropped to one knee, panting as he quickly loaded another ball, dropping it into the barrel of his pistol and ramming it into place.

  He took a quick survey of his surroundings. His best chance, he decided, was to find some high ground, perhaps on the side of one of these massive structures, and wait for a mount to become available. It was only a matter of time before one of the nearby horses lost its rider in the mayhem. But before he had taken a dozen paces, he saw another Mameluke rider approaching. The man looked down on him with black eyes, his mouth opened wide as he trilled out his war cry.

  André rolled to his left, ducking at the last minute out of the horse’s path. He stumbled to his feet but realized he had dropped the pistol as he dodged. He clawed at the sand, hoping to find it somewhere in front of him, but there was no time, for the warrior had turned his light-footed beast and was charging again. This time, André did not move quickly enough, and the blade of the warrior’s saber slashed his right leg, cutting through layers of pants and flesh. André buckled, clutching his thigh. Now he surely could not out-duel this man mounted on an Arabian. Instinctively he reached for the pistol on his belt. Empty. A cold sensation settled over him—he would die on this sand.

  “Valière!” André looked up and saw General Murat approach, his own pistol held aloft. The general aimed the weapon at the enemy and fired. The Mameluke rider sat upright for a moment, then a sudden spasm shook his body. He slumped sideways, slowly sliding off his exhausted horse. André shut his eyes, relief washing over him, momentarily forgetting the excruciating pain in his thigh. The Mameluke was dead and André was wounded but saved—by General Murat, of all people.

  “Valière, you’re wounded.” Murat hopped down from his horse and helped André up. “Can you make it onto the horse?”

  André looked down at his bleeding leg; standing was a sudden agony, and he abandoned the idea of jumping into a stirrup.

  “Fine.” Murat walked with the reins in one hand and guided André, hoisting his other arm over his shoulders, toward a narrow lane alongside the massive pyramid before them.

  “Wait.” André turned. Seeing his saber not ten feet away, he hobbled over and picked it up, sliding it into his scabbard.

  Each step was excruciating, and André fought the urge to cry out in pain, but he allowed himself to be carried by the general farther from the tumult and into the dark, shaded space. He noticed they were near some sort of entryway to the sealed pyramid. Here the sunlight was blocked out and the air was moist. Centuries of shadow had made the stones cool.

  “Drink.” Murat was panting but appeared entirely unharmed from the battle. He held out his waterskin, which André took, noticing, as he did so, how parched his lips and throat were.

  “Thank you, sir.” André gulped the water greedily, allowing himself to be distracted by this cooling drink so that, for just a moment, he forgot about the bleeding wound in his right thigh.

  After he had drunk his fill, he lowered the waterskin. As he did so, he saw the pistol pointed directly at his face. Behind it stared the sea-gray eyes of Nicolai Murat, filled with the look of hatred that André had seen so many times before. Only this time, they were alone—just the two of them, in this dark and hidden doorway, out of sight or earshot from the rest of their countrymen. So, André realized, Murat had simply saved him so that he could be the one to finish him off.

  “I’ve waited years for this moment,” Murat said, his voice low but animated, a grim sneer showing beneath his mustache. “Make peace with your God, if you have one.”

  André acted on instinct, throwing the waterskin at Murat. His aim was true, mercifully, and it knocked the general in the face as André ripped the pistol loose from Murat’s grip. The weapon fell to the ground, firing as it did so, smashing against the impenetrable stone of the building. Disregarding the pain in his leg, André threw himself at the general, knocking him backward as they both fell to the ground, a tangle of limbs and sweat.

  Murat was strong—stronger than André had expected—and certainly strong enough that André, with his incapacitated leg, struggled to contain his writhing frame.

  “I’ll kill you, Valière,” Murat hissed, his face just inches from André’s, his lips contorting in a menacing snarl beneath his thick mustache.

  André cried out in excruciating pain when Murat groped the wound in his leg with his sandy fingers, gnashing at the pulp of flesh and blood.

  Just then three Mamelukes rode into view, no doubt drawn by the sounds of André’s cries. Both André and Murat froze as they saw their tall frames carving out dark silhouettes against the daylight. The horsemen saw the two Frenchmen struggling on the stone floor and muttered a few words to one another in a foreign dialect. They dismounted.

  André and Murat pulled apart, each one of them now thinking about his own defense against these three warriors. One of the Mamelukes muttered something in his native tongue, causing the other two to laugh, a mirthless, spine-chilling sound.

  One of them, a giant with a red turban and rubies adorning his earlobes, charged André. André pulled his sword from its scabbard and parried the blow. To his right, he saw that two of them had engaged Murat, probably believing the Frenchman with the bloody wound in his thigh to be the easier prey.

  André screamed, lunging desperately with his sword. The thrust was easily dodged with a quick movement by the Mameluke. Up close now André saw the man’s features: an ageless face, a hard face, black eyes, and a l
ong beard that swayed as he lunged.

  His sword locked with the Mameluke’s and André moved his left hand quickly, taking it off the sword to reach for his waist. Groaning against the effort of holding the Mameluke’s sword back, he reached with his free hand for his dagger. With one quick motion he raised the dagger, thrusting it into the Mameluke’s belly. The man dropped his sword with a loud clamor onto the stone floor, stepping back from André, his black eyes wide in disbelief. And then he fell, his body landing next to his dropped sword.

  André saw that Murat and the two Mamelukes were still struggling, the general fighting savagely even as he was being backed up against the wall. André remembered Murat’s dropped pistol; he looked around, spotting it several paces away, and lunged for it.

  One of the Mamelukes had pinned Murat against the wall and was trying to stab him in the neck. There was blood coming from Murat’s arm; the general had been injured in the fight. André loaded the pistol quickly, aimed, and fired. One of the enemy stiffened before collapsing on top of Murat. Both Murat and the surviving fighter turned and saw from where the bullet had issued. The third Mameluke, stunned by the shot, bolted from this entryway, leaving the bodies of his two dead friends.

  André watched the man ride off, hoping that was the last Mameluke he’d ever see. Now, he stood facing Murat, alone in the entryway. I just saved your miserable life, André thought to himself, his hatred mixing with the salt and dust that parched his mouth. Murat’s shoulder was bleeding and his face was confused as he took in the scene. He panted, appearing more like a crazed animal than a brigadier general.

  André kept his sword in his hands, noticing that Murat, too, was still armed. The general looked now from the two corpses to André. There it was, still. That burning hatred. André stepped back several feet, backing away from the interior of the entryway. “Murat.” He took another step backward. Soon he would be off stone and back onto the sand. Who knew what other foes waited out there in the desert, and how the rest of the French forces had fared? But he could not remain in here, alone, with Murat.