Kemal Nusair folded down onto one of the tremendous cushions. “Your note intrigued me, Murat,” he said, his attitude very satisfied. “It is a pleasure to be of service to the men of Napoleon. Surely he is a very great man.”
“Most surely,” said Murat, and motioned to Victoire to be silent. “Which is why we rely on your discretion in this matter.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “We must find out where these Englishmen have gone, and we must do it without any undue attention falling upon us.”
“I understand your predicament,” said Nusair. “You would not serve Napoleon well if you made all the world privy to his actions.”
“Exactly,” said Murat.
Three servants came into the room carrying a large brass tray laden with fruit and sweetmeats. They put this down on the frame that waited at the center of the room, and then went to Murat with a ewer of rosewater and a basin.
As he held out his hands, he said to Victoire, “They will do this for you, too. Wash your hands and use the towel they provide.”
“Very well,” said Victoire, who had heard about this custom but had never seen it before. She glanced at Nusair. “I must thank you for including me in your entertainment. I realize that few women ... visit as I have.”
“It is a thing that may change in time,” said Nusair with a philosophical gesture. “I have done my poor best to change the most limiting of our customs.” He watched as she washed her hands in the stream of rosewater. “Permit me to say, Madame Vernet, that you have very fair skin.”
She glanced at him, a bit startled by his observation. “In this climate, I would prefer to have darker. As you see, the heat and dryness exact a toll. Many European women have to deal with this; I am not the only one.” As she finished wiping her hands, she held them out, revealing her chapped knuckles.
“Yes; the sun is very harsh here, and more so to those who are pale,” he said, and looked around as the slave led two veiled women into the room. “There you are,” he said to them, indicating the cushions. “We have guests, as you see.”
The two women stared at Victoire over their veils with kohl-rimmed eyes. “It is a pleasure,” said the slighter of the two.
“My daughter, Lirylah. This is Madame Vernet. Murat you already know. And my First Wife. She is old-fashioned; I hope you will not be offended if she doesn’t speak to you.” Nusair leaned back and made an extravagant gesture of approval. “Very cozy. Very European.”
Neither Murat nor Victoire disabused him of the notion. Murat half-rose as the women sat down, compromising as best he could between proper Egyptian and French conduct. “Let me thank you for your hospitality of the other night,” he said to the women.
“Very gracious,” answered Lirylah. Her French was strongly accented and she spoke hesitantly, but there was no translation needed for the way she stared at Joachim Murat.
“I have had a most interesting note from Murat,” said Nusair. “He tells me that he needs our assistance. It would be appropriate for us to hear him out. And Madame Vernet, as well.” The afterthought of her name reminded Victoire how out of place she was in this setting.
Murat accepted the transfer of interest. “Yes,” he said slowly, looking over toward Lirylah. “We have a ... necessary errand we must perform, and for that we need information and ... help.”
“What nature of help?” asked Nusair for the benefit of his family.
“There is a place we have to find. Napoleon’s enemies are bound for it now, and we must stop them.” Murat looked over at Victoire. “Madame Vernet was the one who stumbled upon the plot, and she has been instrumental in our discoveries.” He sat back in the chair. “The enemies of Napoleon are going to a place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers.”
Nusair chuckled, and looked over at his daughter. “You see? I have said that it is sensible to teach women something other than the raising of children and the pleasuring of men.” He regarded his guests. “I have been at pains to be certain that my daughter receives some degree of education. She has learned French, as you are aware, but she has also learned other things, including geography.” He grinned. “I was told she was an apt pupil.”
“Indeed?” said Victoire, looking at Lirylah with new interest. “Who was her tutor?”
“A very well-educated Italian, one who came here many years ago, to study the old monuments. When the river was in flood he was forced to remain here and earn his bread with his wits. He agreed to teach her in exchange for access to my ships. He was not interested in the places my agents go, but there were sites along the Nile he made the most of.” Nusair clapped his hands together. “Recite for them, Lirylah. The one that has to do with the teacher in the dark wood. I like the sound of that one.”
Obediently Lirylah began the first canto of the Inferno, her Italian more accented than her French. She had gone a dozen lines into the poem when she faltered, losing herself in a tangle of words.
Victoire took it up where Lirylah left off. “‘At the end of the precipitous and rough-faced valley / That until this moment had pierced my soul with dread, / I lifted my eyes, and saw the mountain-ridge shining ...’” She let the words trail off as she looked directly at Lirylah. “It is a very great poem.”
“It offends many people,” said Lirylah seriously.
“Good Muslims do not believe in the same Heaven and Hell as we do,” said Murat, encouraging Nusair’s daughter to continue. “You recite it very well.”
“My tutor was strict,” said Lirylah, and volunteered nothing more.
Nusair was not put off. “This is a very canny girl,” he said of his daughter with great pride. “She is not as other women. God has put a man’s brain into her body.”
Victoire, who had heard similar remarks made about herself most of her life, bristled in Lirylah’s defense. “It is not God who provides the knowledge, but human study, sir. Your daughter is an apt pupil because she loves learning, not because she ought to be a son.”
Murat’s breath caught in his throat and he prepared to intervene in a pitched battle. “Madame Vernet has been very well educated, you see—” he began, only to be cut off by Nusair’s amused laughter.
“What heat you reveal, Madame Vernet,” he said, wiping his eyes with the hem of his sleeve. “I have heard that Frenchwomen have hot tempers, but you are more ferocious than half the soldiers of the Pasha.” He shook his finger at his daughter. “You see what education can do to females. Be warned, my girl. I will not have contention in my house.”
“No, treasured father,” said Lirylah. She glanced swiftly at Victoire, then at Murat.
With a great show of patience, Murat nudged their conversation back in the direction he wished it to go. “About this place called the Treasure-chest of Robbers. If your tutor taught you geography, is it too much to hope that he let you know where this site is?”
“He told me of his explorations there,” said Lirylah, abashed, as if admitting to such knowledge was tantamount to knowing state secrets.
“Ah,” said Murat, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. “And do you think you could indicate the place to us on the map?”
“It is ... possible,” she said. “But every year the river changes a little, and I might not reveal the correct landmarks.”
Murat sat very still, then turned toward Victoire. “What do you think?” he asked, his frown revealing more of his thoughts than he realized.
“I think that we need the information, however we must go about getting it,” she responded softly. “If we’re going after the English, that is.”
“We must do that, unless we find the ... object here in Alexandria, and that no longer seems likely,” said Murat, grim purpose behind his easy smile. “If the English have the ... object, or know where it is, we have to recover it.” He looked directly at Nusair. “We’re at your mercy, I fear.”
“At my mercy?” repeated their host
as he reached for one of the sweetmeats. “What an outlandish notion. Surely it is we Egyptians who are at the mercy of you French.”
Murat stared at Nusair. “I am not here as a conqueror, sir. You forget we represent Liberté, Fraternité, Egalité.”
“Of course you are not, but there are those among the French who are not made of the same stuff.” He indicated a pastry dripping honey. “This is very good. You must have some.”
Murat was not about to be put off with tidbits. “I am a French officer, Mister Nusair, and I am proud of my rank, but let me assure you that I am not here to cause any distress to you, your family, or your country. If you do not believe this, then excuse Madame Vernet and me for bothering you in this unseemly way.”
Lirylah turned to her father, her eyes enormous with dismay. She spoke rapidly to her father, who was watching Murat dumbfounded. He answered her before he collected himself and addressed Murat. “I don’t know what I have said that has offended you, but I hope you will disregard it, General Murat. My words were hasty, the talk of one unfamiliar with the language and prone to error.” He signalled the servants for coffee. “Please. Have—”
There was another, softer outburst from Lirylah which evoked an astonished series of questions from her father. Victoire listened, using what little Arabic she had learned from Roustam-Raza, but recognized only a few words, not enough to make sense of what passed between them. She tried to appear that she could not understand anything, for she suspected that would be regarded as intolerably rude by Kemal Nusair.
At last Nusair slapped his hand down on the table—narrowly missing the sweetmeats—and after a burst of rapid Arabic, he regarded Murat. “This daughter of mine tells me that she knows where to find the place you seek. She was shown maps by her tutor.” He shot her a fulminating glance, and returned his attention to Murat. “She is suggesting an unacceptable thing. I will not bring more shame on her by telling you what she says.”
Victoire spoke before Murat did. “I think it would be helpful, sir, if you will let us know what your daughter is saying, for I have a suggestion to make that I know will be at least as upsetting to you as anything she has put forth to you thus far.”
“What would that be?” asked Nusair, frowning portentously.
Victoire motioned to Murat, warning him not to interrupt her. “Mister Nusair, it is my intention to travel upriver with General of the Cavalry Murat. I have a task to perform on behalf of my husband, who is away in Jaffa and cannot act for himself. I will require another woman for the journey. I would like to arrange for your daughter to accompany me, so that we may all travel with propriety.” She had said it in a rush, as if afraid that if she stopped she could not continue. “It is a great imposition, and ordinarily I would not dare to put forth such a suggestion. But this is a very important mission, one that’ll have lasting consequences on Napoleon’s campaign in Egypt. Those who render assistance in this may be certain of his gratitude at its conclusion.”
Nusair was staring at her, too astonished to be affronted. He swallowed hard twice before he said, “You are proposing that my daughter travel with you? Away from this house? Out of the company of her mother?”
“I am proposing that she come with us so that she may aid us in finding the Treasure-chest of Robbers, as well as making it acceptable for me to go with General Murat. As a married woman, I must not travel with him alone. I would be compromised beyond recall.” Victoire lowered her eyes modestly in order not to see the expression of approval and amusement in Murat’s brown eyes.
Nusair exchanged several short sentences with his First Wife, then looked at Lirylah. “And you? What do you want in this?” He spoke in French so that his guests would hear the answer for themselves. “You have my word as a true son of the Prophet, with my hand on the Quran. It will be as you wish.”
Lirylah stared directly at Murat. “I will come with you, if Allah wills.”
“Lirylah!” her father burst out.
“You asked me, treasured father,” she said, flinching at the tone of his voice but sticking to her words. “I will accompany Madame Vernet. Otherwise she will have to go with a woman she does not know and cannot trust. Upriver that can be a great risk, and well you know it.” Her veil obscured her mouth but Victoire sensed she was pouting.
“But—” Nusair began.
“You said I might decide, treasured father,” Lirylah reminded him softly. “And who else can we recommend to them who is appropriate? How many women do you know who speak any French?”
Nusair coughed. “It is folly to educate a daughter. Everyone warned me and I would not listen.” He folded his arms and glared at her. “Very well. Since you will have it, go with Madame Vernet on her quest. But if any dishonor comes to you, I will not take you back into the house.”
Victoire intervened. “What dishonor could happen? She will assure my honor and I will assure hers. I have no wish to see her compromised and she cannot want to have any disrepute come to me. Roustam-Raza will be with us, and he is a most upright and correct Muslim. He will not permit your daughter to be taken advantage of, either out of intent or ignorance. What could be safer?”
“Staying under her father’s roof,” said Nusair bluntly. “But she has expressed her wish and I have said it will be granted. Why I should have had such a daughter—” He gave a gesture of vexation. “Very well.”
“There are gardens in Paradise for you, treasured father,” said Lirylah.
“Where your behavior will speedily send me,” he responded gloomily.
“Well, we had best set about our plans, before you depart on this madness.”
Victoire and Murat exchanged glances, and then he moved to where Nusair sat and began to soothe the merchant’s nerves with the assurances of the favor he would certainly enjoy.
* * *
Murat stood in the aft of the dhow, watching the first light change the surface of the river from indigo to silver to blush, his heart lightened by the beauty of it. He was dressed like a prosperous Greek merchant, his dashing cavalry whiskers shaved off in favor of a short new beard, and his curly brown hair was clipped close.
“We’ll reach Abydos this morning, they tell me,” Victoire said as she came up to him. She, too, wore Greek clothing, hers appropriate to a weaver from Hydra.
“Excellent,” he said after a long, distracted moment. “Are the horses ready?”
“Probably more than ready,” said Victoire. “They’ve been standing in stalls for the better part of five days. Roustam-Raza will have to exercise them with you before they’re fit to ride.” She regarded him, finding his face unusually set. “What is it, Murat? What’s troubling you? Are you worried we will not recover the scepter?”
He looked at her, faintly startled. “Well, yes. Yes. That, of course ...” He did not continue.
Victoire closed her eyes; Murat confirmed what she had suspected in the four and a half days they had been aboard the dhow. “Does she know? That you love her.”
Murat was still for a dozen heartbeats, then shook his head. “I hope not,” he said.
“Then you plan to say nothing?” she asked him. When he did speak, she went on, “For she loves you, Murat. It’s in her face every time she looks at you.”
He turned away from her. “Madame Vernet, please. It is hard enough to bear within myself. If I speak of her to you, it could weaken my resolve.”
“To say nothing?” she asked.
“I am a man of honor, Madame Vernet. How could I speak to her?” His eyes were bright with an emotion that was not quite anger or despair.
“Would speaking alone dishonor either of you?” She was as aware of the strictures that bound him as he was. She sought for some solution to his turmoil.
“An acknowledgment is not a declaration.”
“In my case, I fear it would have to be,” he said very softly. “How could I tell her ... anyt
hing? It would take advantage of her innocence.” He stared out toward the hot line of the eastern horizon where the sun was emerging.
“But she loves you, Murat, with all her soul,” Victoire said simply.
His sigh was not quite steady. “I know.”
“Is that so terrible?” Victoire did not give him time to answer. “How did we end up in Egypt, in any case? Why did France seek this place?”
Murat was visibly relieved. “Politics, Madame,” he said with an attempt at his usual jauntiness.
“Politics, of course. We are Frenchmen, so it has to be politics or love.” The cavalry officer glanced toward where Lirylah slept. “There is much every citizen knows about the great battles that saved the Republic. Few outside Paris realize the true nature of the Directoire that now rules our land.” Murat lost some of his normal exuberance here. His voice took on an almost conspiratorial tone. “I must ask you to repeat none of this. I find you an exceptional, er, person and so will speak on it. In some places to talk so plainly could bring you a visit to Dr. Guillotine’s merciful invention.”
“I am the wife of a Gendarme officer,” Victoire assured Murat.
“Of course,” the cavalryman smiled. “And we are all here with Napoleon. In fact, we are all here because of Napoleon.
“You see, the members of the Directoire hold the reins of power as tightly as they dare. Even so, their grip is feeble and France a powerful steed. They can never feel in control of the land they run, much less comfortable or secure. All of today’s Directoire gained their jobs, sometimes literally, over the bodies of those who preceded them. I cannot recall any who have retired peacefully from such employment. These men are ambitious. Perhaps more ambitious than competent. They fear anyone who could someday challenge them.
“Napoleon was such a man. He was a hero after he put down the rebellion at Toulon and forced the English to flee the city. To be rid of him, the Directoire sent the general to Italy. There a despondent and poorly trained army had been many times defeated by the Austrians. All France loves a winner, but has no memory for those who lose. They must have hoped that Napoleon would slow the inevitable Austrian success, or at worst, fail completely and lose his popularity.
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