Napoleon Must Die

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  But she must have dozed, for a sudden scuffle in the passageway roused her, bringing her out of a fragment of dream where she was lost in an endless canyon, looking for someone or something that constantly eluded her.

  Roustam-Raza shouted from the other side of the door. “Treachery!”

  This brought Victoire to her full senses. She sat up, reaching toward the door to secure the bolt.

  She was an instant too late. Roustam-Raza crashed into the room, his scimitar out, his dagger at the ready. He put himself between the three armed men who had crowded into the passage and Victoire.

  “These are the Pasha’s men, Madame,” Roustam-Raza said breathlessly. “They have sent the crew away on the Pasha’s orders.”

  “The Pasha sent you as well.”

  “I have sworn on the Quran to serve Napoleon. It seems this Pasha is unworthy and I could not serve him further even if that were not so.”

  Victoire closed her eyes in distress. Her own dirk was in with her clothes and useless to her now. “What do they want?”

  “The scepter,” said Roustam-Raza, falling silent as one of the men rattled off orders to them. “He says that if we will give him the scepter, we will be permitted to continue on our way. If we do not give him the scepter, he will kill us.”

  “He may kill us anyway,” said Victoire somberly.

  “Yes, that is very possible,” said Roustam-Raza.

  Another one of the Pasha’s men was speaking, his tone angry and his words harsh.

  “He says that the scepter rightfully belongs to the Pasha and it is necessary to return it to him.” Roustam-Raza sneered. “They use a robber’s excuse for stealing.”

  “The scepter rightfully belongs to one of the ancient kings if it belongs to anyone,” said Victoire. “But we’re honor bound to return it to Napoleon Buonaparte.”

  At the sound of that name the first of the Pasha’s men spat and uttered what was clearly a curse. He brought his scimitar up as if he intended to use it on her.

  “What do you think, Roustam-Raza?” asked Victoire, doing her best to remain calm though her pulse raced.

  “I think we had best escape or expect to feed the Nile fish,” he answered her. “They would be foolish to let us live once they have the scepter.”

  She looked startled. “Are you going to give it to them?”

  “They will take it in any case,” he said. “If I give it to them, we may catch them off-guard.” He then spoke to the men in Egyptian before adding to Victoire, “They grow suspicious easily and if I speak with you too often, they will assume we are conspiring.”

  “As well they might, since we are,” said Victoire, finding the sweltering afternoon overwhelming. “What do you suggest?”

  Instead of answering her, Roustam-Raza went on at some length to the Pasha’s men. At last he said to her, “I will distract them, telling them that the scepter is in my quarters. As soon as their attention is diverted, dive out the window. I will meet you downstream where the asses are brought to drink.”

  “Dive?” she repeated. “Into the Nile?” All of Larrey’s warnings about the danger of Nile water came back to her in a rush. The thought of the dangerous animalcules and effluvia all but stopped the breath in her throat.

  “They will not be able to catch you.” Roustam-Raza glared at her ferociously. “As soon as I go to the door.”

  She suppressed a shudder. “All right,” she said, making up her mind. “And the scepter?”

  “We will recover it later,” he promised her. “Be ready.” With that he said a number of terse things to her in Egyptian and then swung around, addressing the Pasha’s men, indicating the door.

  Victoire rose on her knees on the cot, feeling the ropes beneath the thin mattress dig into her knees. She hoped that she did not look suspect to the Pasha’s men.

  But those men were not looking at her at all, for it was disgraceful to look on a woman’s unveiled face. They were relieved to give their attention to Roustam-Raza and spare themselves and Victoire the shame of their stares.

  Roustam-Raza stepped through the door, the Pasha’s men close behind him.

  And Victoire stood up unsteadily and wriggled out through the window, dropping headfirst into the Nile.

  The river was faster than she expected, and the water less clear than she had thought it would be. Her djellaba, loose though it was, was an encumbrance to swimming; she floundered as the current bore her away from the felucca, tugging her toward the middle of the river. She kept her head up and gasped for breath, coughing as water splashed over her face and mouth. God and the Saints! what was she drinking? she wondered.

  A face appeared in the window she had escaped through, and angry shouts followed her as she continued to slide further away from the boat. She realized that she must swim more strongly if she was not to drown and be swept down the river and her body out to sea. She paddled and kicked, rising up to get deep breaths every eighth stroke. Fighting the current sapped her strength at once, and the sun’s glare made it hard to see the eastern bank clearly. With dogged determination she continued to paddle.

  It seemed to Victoire that she had been in the river for hours. Whatever dreadful things lurked in the water, she was surely filled with all of them. She had swallowed more of the Nile than she had thought possible, and her garments were heavy with it. Her arms and legs moved automatically now, her will all but exhausted and only her persevering nature keeping her afloat. From time to time she looked for a herd of white asses. That was where Roustam-Raza said she should come ashore. She repeated those instructions over in her mind, trying to make sense of them, and all the while she continued to paddle and kick, paddle and kick, rising up for breath on every eighth stroke.

  A lacy shadow of palm trees fell on the water, offering Victoire the first respite from the surface shine. She rose out of the water enough to look around, and was amazed to see that she was much closer to the shore than she had thought. With renewed vigor, she swam toward the palm trees, determined to ignore the exhaustion that was overtaking her. She was still drifting northward in the hold of the current, but she no longer felt caught in its inexorable grip, and she began to look for a place where asses drank.

  In less than ten minutes she found it; she cried out in relief and surprise. Her arms trembled from the effort, but she continued on toward the shore, her waterlogged clothes dragging at her as much as the river.

  Two brown Egyptian boys watched in amazement as she slogged out of the river, half-swimming, half-wading ashore. At last she stood unsteadily on the bank of the Nile, the two Egyptian boys and half a dozen white asses regarding her in bewilderment.

  Victoire used one of the few Egyptian phrases she knew: “May Allah bring you riches, favor, and many sons.”

  One of the Egyptian boys made the sign against the Evil Eye, the other one started to run away.

  “No,” called out Victoire, though she knew they would not understand her. “I ... I need help.” She took a couple uncertain steps and watched the boys retreat. As soon as she reached the nearest palm, she leaned against it, hungry for its support. Her sodden djellaba enveloped her in yards of linen that now seemed unbearably heavy. Portions clung to her body, obviously embarrassing the youths. She could feel her hair, no longer confined in a fashionable knot on the crown of her head, cascade around her shoulders.

  A short while later there was a thrashing in the reeds and low bushes just south of the palms. Victoire chided herself for having found no weapon, but knew she lacked the strength to use anything but a pistol. She moved around the trunk of the tree, hoping for better protection.

  Roustam-Raza appeared, holding the two boys by the scruff of the neck. He was issuing gruff orders to them, shaking them as he did.

  Victoire sighed, for the first time feeling that she was safe. “Over here,” she called out, and then, to her intense embarrassment, sh
e burst into tears.

  The Mameluke released his small captives and rushed to where Victoire was hiding. “Where are you hurt?” he demanded.

  She shook her head twice before she was able to say, “I’m not hurt. Just tired. And this is idiotic.” Her own condemnation did not stop her tears.

  Roustam-Raza folded his arms. “Yes, it is,” he said emphatically. “There is no reason to weep if you are not hurt and you are safe.”

  “I know,” she wailed.

  He stared at her, shaking his head. “We ought to be gone from here soon.”

  She nodded, and made herself stop crying, swallowing hard against the sobs that still threatened to overcome her. “I’ll be all right now,” she promised Roustam-Raza, doing her best to stand up straight. She realized what a bedraggled sight she was, and checked her impulse to weep again.

  “There is another boat, a small boat. We can ride it to Cairo, or so they have promised me.” He watched her take a few steps. “You will be stronger shortly.”

  “Yes, I will,” she said, in spite of inner misgivings.

  He pointed to a path through the reeds. “There is a road not far from here. People will stare, but that should not concern you now. We must inform Napoleon that the Pasha has taken the scepter as soon as possible.”

  She nodded and tried to gather up the hem of the djellaba. “It will dry in the sun.”

  “And it will keep you cool while it does,” said Roustam-Raza in approval. “Egyptian women could not do this, but you are French, as anyone who sees your hair will know.” He indicated the path again. “I will go ahead. It isn’t fitting for a man to walk behind a woman on the road.”

  “Of course,” she said, thinking it was all of a piece. She squared her shoulders. “Lead the way, then.”

  With an approving nod, Roustam-Raza strode ahead of her through the bulrushes.

  * * *

  “It was fortunate that passage was so narrow,” said Roustam-Raza a little later as they approached the square pier where a boat was tied up. “I was able to kick the leader back against the other two, and while they struggled to untangle themselves, I ran from the boat and hid by the shore. They did not bother searching for me; they had what they came for, and that was all that mattered to them.”

  “So you think they’re taking the scepter to the Pasha?” asked Victoire as they stepped onto the uneven planking.

  “That was their plan. Why should they not do it?” He called out a greeting, and was answered quickly by a convoluted blessing from the owner of the boat. “I have already paid the man,” Roustam-Raza confided to Victoire.

  “And you expected him to wait for you because of that?” Victoire guessed.

  “Not necessarily. I expect him to demand more of us now that he is aware that I have gold.” He gave a single, knowing nod to Victoire as he set foot on the plank that led to the boat. He reeled off a long series of good wishes and blessings on the owner of the boat, all the while gesturing to Victoire to come aboard.

  Aching with fatigue, Victoire did just that.

  * * *

  Dusk had fallen by the time the boat tied up at the smallest of the Cairo docks. The owner of the boat made one last attempt to coax a few more gold coins from Roustam-Raza, then gave it up. He had already doubled his fee and was well pleased at the price he had got.

  “I am going to find cloth for a veil, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza as they left the boat. “Under the circumstances, it would be best if you covered your hair and face.”

  Victoire had recovered a little, and she realized that Roustam-Raza’s suggestion was prudent. “Yes.” She stayed close behind him as he started into the warren of dockside streets. For the moment she ducked her head and did her best to let her hair shield her face. It was a poor compromise, but it would have to do.

  Three blocks later Roustam-Raza found a stall where lengths of silk were sold. He purchased one without much regard to its color, and handed it to Victoire. “Place it over your head.”

  She straightened up and did as he told her, feeling strangely safer now that she was not quite so clearly a foreign woman in these narrow streets. “We must go to the garrison at once,” she told Roustam-Raza.

  “To make our report,” he seconded, and pushed his way through the crowd, motioning to Victoire to keep close behind him. “We have lost enough treasure for one day,” he declared as they went.

  * * *

  ”And you say that the men who took the scepter were Pasha’s men?” asked Captain Echevue, his manner making it very clear that he considered the whole tale Victoire had told him to be a fabrication.

  “I say that they are,” Roustam-Raza maintained, giving the captain one of his most murderous stares.

  “And they took this treasure from you? The treasure which was taken from Napoleon’s spoils after the battle?” His voice rose in disbelief. “Madame, I am sorry for whatever misfortune has brought you to this terrible state, but surely you must understand that I cannot ... How can I give any credence to a story so preposterous?”

  “But it isn’t preposterous,” Victoire insisted, her voice almost breaking with emotion. “If he were here General Joachim Murat would vouch for me.”

  “And you had a letter to that effect, but lost it when you were forced to dive into the Nile,” Captain Echevue finished for her. “Most intrepid, I’m sure.”

  Victoire wanted to scream, but she controlled the urge. “Would you rather I present you with a more credible lie? I am telling you the truth, and Roustam-Raza knows it to be the truth.”

  “A Mameluke’s word ... well, it is an original notion.” He was looking at Victoire and did not see the rage that crossed Roustam-Raza’s features.

  Roustam-Raza shoved his shoulder between Captain Echevue and Victoire, facing the officer as he said, “Bring the Quran and I will tell the whole story to you again, with Allah as my bond and witness. We were in the company of General Murat until he was ordered to join Colonel Kleber. Send a courier after him and obtain his testimony, if you must. Or send word to Berthier, and ask him to hear me out.”

  Captain Echevue was put off by this daunting assertion. He strove to put more distance between himself and Roustam-Raza, all the while trying to restore his own dignity with a deprecating cough. “I will send word to Berthier at once, you need have no fear of that. And I will detain you here until sense can be made of your story.”

  “In the meantime, the Pasha hides the scepter,” said Victoire flatly. “I hope you will not have to answer for that.”

  Captain Echevue pursed his lips. “You tell me it is the Pasha who has arranged this. But Roustam-Raza is a Mameluke, the gift of the Pasha. Is it possible that he might have wanted to—”

  He got no further. Roustam-Raza reached out and seized the front of Captain Echevue’s pelisse. “I am sworn to Napoleon while there is breath in my body, and I am his man and no other’s. If you doubt me, then make your claim where I may seek retribution for this lie you speak of me.”

  Now Captain Echevue was shaken. He managed to pry Roustam-Raza’s fingers off his clothes. He did not speak for well over a minute while he neatened the front of his pelisse. “I will send word to Berthier at once. But I warn you: you had better have a good account to render. Berthier is not the sort of man to take kindly to deception.” With that, he signalled the guard at his door. “See that these two have somewhere to clean up. And do something about that deplorable ... thing! she is wearing.”

  Victoire plucked at the djellaba. No doubt the captain was right and she ought to have proper women’s clothes. She rose from the upholstered bench where she had been sitting and addressed Captain Echevue as politely as she could. “Thank you. I have clothes in camp. So long as you are sending word to Berthier, perhaps you would be kind enough to ask Larrey as well if he could spare a moment or two from tending the wounded to arrange a valise of clothing for
me?”

  There was more caution in Captain Echevue’s eyes. “How do you know Larrey?”

  “I have tended wounded under his supervision, as most officers’ wives do,” she answered directly, and saw that at last she had scored a point.

  But Captain Echevue was reluctant to concede it. “If it seems appropriate, I will.”

  Victoire studied him, then said, “Some arrangement of that sort must be made, or I’ll have to continue to wear this Egyptian garment.”

  Roustam-Raza looked from one to the other, moving a step nearer to Victoire.

  Captain Echevue capitulated. “Very well, I’ll inquire about other clothes.”

  Victoire curtsied, knowing not to press her advantage. “Thank you.”

  MOST OF THE garrison had retired for the night; only guards patrolled the darkened halls. On the second floor in a salon not far from the kitchen a few officers remained over hands of piquet; the rest had retired more than an hour before.

  Roustam-Raza had established himself on a pallet outside Victoire’s door, and was very nearly asleep when he heard a tap from the inside. He sat up at once, scimitar ready, and opened the door a crack. “Madame?”

  “I need you to find me one of the page’s trousers—preferably a pair that will fit, and nothing French.” She gave him the instructions as if there were nothing odd about them.

  “What?” he demanded, contriving not to raise his voice.

  “I need a pair of page’s trousers. I have the proper Greek shirt, but without the trousers ...” She did not wheedle—that would be useless with the Mameluke.

  “And why would you want trousers, Madame, now that we are back in Cairo?” he challenged her.

  “Because I want to see where the Pasha’s men have gone. If we know they are at the palace, then we will know where to search for the scepter.” Her voice was steady, as if her outrageous proposition were no more shocking than a stroll in the park.