Napoleon Must Die

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Napoleon Must Die Page 19

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro


  Roustam-Raza swore comprehensively in Egyptian.

  “I must do this, Roustam-Raza, and I will do it with or without your help. But it would be easier—and safer—if you were to assist me.” She let him have some time to consider the implications. “Will you do this for me, Roustam-Raza?”

  “No decent Muslim would help in such an insane and improper scheme,” he told her. “What you suggest is appalling.”

  “My husband will be dismissed in dishonor if the scepter is not returned. I have it in my power to assist him. What else am I to do?” she inquired. “If I were a Muslim woman, I would not do this, but I am a Christian, and my duty is clear.”

  Roustam-Raza gave a long, slow sigh. “Trousers, you say?”

  “I thought if I dressed like a Greek eunuch again, I might be able to get close enough to the palace to learn something,” she said.

  “More than you want to,” Roustam-Raza pointed out. “Eunuchs of that sort are more preferred than women by many. If one of the Pasha’s guards desired you, you would be doubly lost, and we would be helpless to save you.”

  It was Victoire’s turn to sigh. “I’ve heard tales about the way these men are. If they attempted to ... to detain me, I would reveal that I am a Christian woman.”

  “And you would be sent to the hareem, and would not be allowed out again, no matter what anyone said. Napoleon has no power inside the palace, and no woman who enters the hareem leaves it except as a corpse.” He spoke bluntly in the hope that he could dissuade her.

  “I will have to be careful,” she said. “And I will be, Roustam-Raza. I am not a flighty girl, and I know there is danger.”

  Roustam-Raza turned his eyes toward the ceiling. “If I do not get the trousers you will find a way to do this mad thing, anyway, won’t you?” He did not need an answer from her.

  “I must, Roustam-Raza.”

  He knew he could not convince her to abandon her plan. “Give me an hour then. And do not leave that chamber until I return. If you do leave, I will not help you. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” She sounded excited, and this made him wary.

  “I’ll come with you, as far as I am allowed. Now that I am Napoleon’s man, I am not permitted to enter the palace, but with Napoleon himself.” He sheathed his scimitar. “One hour, Madame Vernet. And I will do what I can for you.”

  “I’m grateful, Roustam-Raza,” she said, and listened to the sound of his footsteps fading in the hall.

  She then went to get her ewer and basin. She needed to bathe and wash her hair before Roustam-Raza returned. She would also need a little charcoal to pat onto her jaw and upper lip so that it would appear that she had a wisp of beard, as a few of the eunuchs did. This was one occasion, she thought, that she did not mind that her breasts were small, for it made her pose as a eunuch more convincing. She selected the rose-scented soap the garrison had provided her, and poured water into the basin, finding a sponge and a towel in the top drawer of the commode.

  * * *

  “How did you manage to persuade me to this,” Roustam-Raza complained as they strode through the streets of Cairo not long after midnight. “Only thieves and murderers are abroad at this hour.”

  “And which are we?” she asked brightly, determined not to let his gloom touch her. “Thieves, I suppose, if we are trying to locate the scepter. Since the Pasha claims it as his own, and we intend to take it back, now or another time—”

  “You are not to steal from the Pasha, Madame,” said Roustam-Raza with force.

  “No, certainly not.” She said it much too willingly and too quickly for him to be anything other than suspicious. Sensing his reservations, she went on, “I wouldn’t know where to find the scepter in any case, so the whole question is moot.”

  “I am pleased that you admit it,” said Roustam-Raza, his stride loosening. “I will take you to near the kitchens. At this time of night it is the only place you can be safe, and my presence will not be noticed. I will not compromise my position, and you will be able to hear the servants and slaves gossip. That is your intention, isn’t it?”

  “I’d like to find the men who took the scepter,” she reminded him. “But at this hour, that isn’t likely.” She changed from French to Greek. “From here on, this would be the wiser language.”

  “I do not speak it as well,” said Roustam-Raza in that tongue. “But you are right.”

  They were nearing the palace now, and the surroundings were subtly grander: the streets somewhat wider, the housefronts in excellent repair, with more ornaments of worked iron and brass.

  “The kitchens are opposite the stables,” said Roustam-Raza, his Greek harsh and guttural, more Arabic than Greek in sound. “There are gardens between them.”

  “Very sensible,” said Victoire. “Keep the midden away from the food. There are fewer flies on the meat. Although in this country, there are flies everywhere,” she added as she considered the question. Little though she wanted to admit it, now that she was close to the palace, she was beginning to be scared. Roustam-Raza’s warnings had taken on new credibility as they approached the imposing walls.

  “Don’t slow down,” said Roustam-Raza as they reached the open square in front of the main gates. “The guards will detain you if they see you linger here.”

  “Yes,” she said, permitting him to direct her around to the left, toward the kitchens. “I had no idea the palace was so large,” she confessed as they walked.

  “Keep that in mind,” he recommended. “I would not think the less of you if you decide to put aside this venture.”

  “I would think the less of myself,” said Victoire.

  “Greeks,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “are very proud.”

  “Indeed Greeks are,” she answered in the same tone.

  As they walked along the walls, Roustam-Raza told her, “It is not wise to look up. The guards could detain you for that, as well. They would say that you are spying on them.”

  “How absurd,” she said.

  “Isn’t it. And when we reach the kitchens, remember that many of the servants and slaves know some Greek. And French.” He walked a little slower. “You will need some pretext to be there.”

  “I suppose I will,” she said, much struck.

  “You might be carrying a message. You have delivered it and are waiting for a reply, or you have been sent to get a reply. Yes, that would be better. If you are waiting on one of the Pasha’s advisors, it would be reasonable for you to remain in the kitchen area.” He frowned. “A Greek eunuch might be the servant of ... oh, any number of important men. Say you are the servant of a foundry master. You are waiting for official permission for your master to sell cannon to the Infidels.” He rubbed his hands together. “There’s enough of that going on, and it makes sense you being here at night.”

  “I’m the servant of a foundry master. Where is the foundry?” She glanced at him. “In case I’m asked.”

  “The foundry is in Ausim. That’s close enough to Cairo, and to the French.” He indicated two gates, one of which stood open. “If you go through that door, you are beyond me. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” she said with exaggerated patience. “But if I enter the kitchen yard, you’ll be able to watch me, and I’ll listen. It makes better sense for a messenger to be inside the gate, doesn’t it? If I were going to stay outside, I might as well be at the front of the palace.”

  He glowered. “True enough.” Although he was filled with misgiving, he nodded once. “The kitchen yard, and only the kitchen yard. If you are apprehended—”

  “I know, I’m lost.” She said it lightly enough, but the impact of it struck her at last. If she were caught inside the palace, she would have to remain there for the rest of her life. For a moment it was difficult to breathe, and then she recovered herself. “I’ll be careful,” she promised him.


  He made a gesture that indicated he could not actually believe her. Ominously Victoire remembered how equally optimistic she had been at the start of their journey down the Nile.

  She went to the gate, peering in to make note of the activity there. At this hour very little was going on. A girl with a scarred face—possibly Turkish—sat peeling onions at the entrance to what Victoire supposed was the pantry. Beyond her a thin young man was sweeping the cobblestones, his pleasant face vacant. Inside the kitchen there was some activity, but Victoire could not see it clearly. She nodded toward Roustam-Raza, and slipped through the gate.

  She had not been in the courtyard for more than three minutes when a young man in palace livery came into the courtyard, calling out for one of the nighttime cooks.

  “I want coffee,” he ordered when one of the servants appeared in the hallway. “And something to eat. It is going to be a long night.”

  “It is always a long night,” said the servant.

  Victoire understood about half of what they said. Suddenly she felt much more vulnerable. If only she had taken the time to learn more Egyptian from Roustam-Raza. But her few phrases had seemed enough while he was with her to provide translations. She watched the kitchen servant, hoping that something in the man’s manner would indicate how she should react to the elegant young man.

  “They are making plans,” complained the young man. “Something has pleased the Pasha and he has four of his ministers with him, and some of the commanders of his army.”

  “They have asked for coffee and sweetmeats,” agreed the kitchen servant.

  The young man caught sight of Victoire and gave her a single, penetrating look. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She answered in Greek, hoping that he would be able to understand her. “I am a messenger. From Ausim.”

  His Greek was passable. “To what purpose?”

  “My master has a foundry. He wants to sell cannon to the French. I am supposed to bring him permission from the Pasha.” She said it with all the confidence she could muster, but to herself she sounded patently dishonest.

  “Part of the plan,” said the young man, nodding. “Allah protect the Pasha and give him glory in battle.”

  “Allah is great,” said Victoire in Egyptian, one of the few phrases she knew well enough to use. She went on in Greek. “I was told to wait for an answer.”

  “And well you might. We’re all waiting tonight. The whole palace is filled with waiting men.” He tossed his head. “The kitchen will never be cool.”

  “No, it won’t,” said Victoire, trusting that this was a safe answer.

  “What is your name, and who is your master?” asked the young man. “I am Yousef.”

  Victoire had already invented. “I’m Perikles. My master is Abdel Hillet.” It was an ordinary name, but not so ordinary that it would be grounds for suspicion.

  “Perikles,” said Yousef. “An auspicious name. Well, you could have a wait. You might as well come into the kitchen with me and have something to eat. They aren’t going to finish any time soon.”

  Victoire managed to yawn. “Food might make me sleepy.”

  “The coffee will waken you. It’s what the great ones are doing to keep awake.” He nodded to the kitchen servant. “You can feed him, too, can’t you?”

  “Of course,” said the servant, and started back down the hall.

  Victoire followed along, trying to persuade herself that this was a stroke of good luck.

  Yousef clapped his hands as they entered the main part of the kitchen and brought a dozen servants hurrying toward them. “Coffee. Sweetmeats.”

  The kitchen itself seemed a page out of history to Victoire, who had accustomed herself to the modern kitchens of France, with enclosed stoves and ovens. This kitchen was one of open hearths and tremendous spits, and only one old-fashioned griddle-stove. Huge chopping blocks and tremendous pastry boards made passage through the kitchen difficult.

  Over their refreshments—which Victoire remembered to eat with the right hand only—Yousef, glad of an audience, regaled Victoire with his own knowledge of the current activities in the palace, embellishing with his own suppositions when he lacked information.

  “Who are you supposed to see?” he asked when they were almost finished with their coffee.

  “I don’t know,” Victoire confessed. “My master said that I would be given a sealed packet, and I was to bring that back to him.”

  “Your master is a prudent fellow, Perikles. Well you may thank Allah for his wisdom.” Yousef pulled his insufficient beard. “I know a place you can wait that is less confusing than this one.” He was proud to demonstrate his power to someone with less than he. “If you will come with me, I will take you to one of the waiting chambers.”

  “That would ... that would be very gracious,” she said, wishing she could get word to Roustam-Raza, As heartened as she was by the chance to get into the palace, she dreaded what would happen if she were caught.

  “Then come with me,” he offered, indicating one of the corridors beyond the kitchen. “The waiting chamber is on the floor above. It will not be incorrect for you, as a messenger, to wait there.”

  “That is ... very generous of you, Yousef. I will tell my master of your service.” She was fairly certain this was a correct response.

  “Any words that will help my advancement are welcome, if Allah wills,” he said, beaming at her as he led the way.

  * * *

  Victoire sat in the waiting chamber for the better part of an hour, every second fearing discovery. She heard men pass in the hall, and once the sound of angry voices drifted down from the floor above, but where the angry man was, or who, she could not guess. Her nerves were sensitized—she supposed that was the coffee at work—but that made her edgy. She paced the room until she knew every inch of it, and then she sat down on one of the two low divans there. She did not want to draw attention to herself, but she feared she would be forgotten until someone discovered her and exposed her.

  At last the tension grew too much for her and she decided to explore. If nothing else, the room beyond was a meeting room. She might be able to discover something useful there. Yousef had told her that some of the Pasha’s soldiers had been there earlier in the evening. They might have left something behind.

  Very carefully, Victoire went to the connecting door and lifted the latch, hoping that no one would be inside, for she had no explanation for her actions that would not condemn her.

  No one was in the room, which was lined with unrolled maps. Had the room been more brightly lit, she would have taken time to make note of what was displayed on them. But the single oil lamp did not provide enough illumination for her to do this. Very slowly and carefully she began to explore, noticing that the door to the main corridor was bolted, and the third door, the one leading to a chamber Victoire had not seen, was bolted also.

  There were two trestle tables in the room, one with a dispatch case sitting on it. Very carefully Victoire worked the buckles loose and opened the case, knowing that if she was found out now, it would mean a quick and messy execution for her.

  There was a letter in the leather case, one she did not give herself time to read thoroughly, although it was written in French. The handwriting was quite poor and the grammar hardly better. She noticed that there was mention of Napoleon having informed the Directoire that Egypt was now a French possession and asking for himself to be appointed governor. The letter was signed Tallyrand, though the signature was so smeared as to be almost unrecognizable. The seal on the letter was definitely that of the Directoire, she had seen one on Vernet’s appointment as a major in the Gendarmes.

  Victoire hurriedly returned the letter to the dispatch case, shocked at the enormity of what she had seen: that someone in the Directoire should send covert messages to the Pasha. Was Tallyrand truly the culprit, or was someone determined to destroy
him as well as Napoleon? As she started to thread the leather straps through the buckles, she felt something shift inside the large dispatch case.

  Curious, she opened it once again, shaking it and finding it much heavier than she had thought it was. On impulse, she felt the inside of the case and discovered a hidden latch. With trembling fingers she opened it, and found the scepter.

  She stared at it for the greater part of a minute, astonished. Then she took it from the dispatch case and thrust it through the thick belt she wore, down the leg of her loose trousers. The gold was chill next to her skin, and reminded her again of the danger in which she stood.

  Knowing that she was setting herself on an irrevocable path, Victoire slipped back into the waiting chamber. She smoothed her garments, doing her best to keep the scepter completely concealed. The head of the scepter actually added to her disguise, if she no longer claimed to be a eunuch. Her walk would have to be a bit more stiff-legged than usual, but she decided that she could manage it without becoming conspicuous.

  Her heart racing, she went and opened the door, looking in both directions down the corridor. All she would need now was the opportunity to get back to the kitchens, and she would be able to slip out through the kitchen yard and back to the streets and Roustam-Raza’s protection.

  The thought of the Mameluke made her smile nervously. He would surely be out of temper with her when she returned. She hoped that the return of the scepter might mollify his anger.

  She went down the corridor, just as Yousef had led her, looking for the ornaments that she had tried to memorize as they walked. But it was later in the night, and some of the oil lamps had been extinguished, which brought about confusion. Victoire knew that she had to get to the lower floor, and from there to the kitchens, but she could not find the staircase that led down. Resisting the panic that rose in her, she continued along the corridor, keeping alert for any staircase that would take her below. She was certain that she had come farther than Yousef had led her. At last she .turned around, starting back along the corridor, trying to think what she would say if anyone came upon her.

 

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