The Mystery of Queen Nefertiti

by C T Cassana

  “Come on, I’ll explain everything to you from the beginning.”

  . . .

  While his sister wrote down all her findings and prepared abridged biographies of Joséphine and Vivant Denon in pure “Rotherwick” style, Charlie began studying the life of Napoleon Bonaparte in minute detail, much to the astonishment of his father.

  The children had always shown an interest in history, but only if it had been previously filtered by their mother and transformed into entertaining stories that she would tell them at dinner, at bedtime or when they were traveling in the car.

  So to see his children compulsively reading history books that would have been tedious to most adults was surprising... and a little bit frightening. It seemed that what had been intended as a way of awakening a desire to learn had gone too far and was turning them into a pair of super-nerds.

  An unexpected question from Charlie seemed to confirm his fears.

  “Dad, what’s your opinion of Napoleon Bonaparte as a person?”

  Marcus stared at him blankly, not only because of the profundity of the question but because of the way his son had expressed it. Without answering, he checked his watch to determine whether he had time to rush off to a store to buy a Play Station console for his son and a tablet for his daughter. Charlie took advantage of his father’s bewilderment to explain the reason behind his question, although he never would have spoken as he did if he’d been able to read his father’s mind.

  “You see, I’m not sure what I should make of him,” said the boy, “or whether I still like him.”

  Marcus found this explanation to be rather curious and, in a certain way, touching.

  “On the one hand, it’s clear that he had some great ideas about how to win battles, and that he was a genius at war,” suggested Charlie.

  “Yes, he was a brilliant military strategist,” agreed Marcus.

  “And, well, I know that a war is always a war, but I really like all that stuff about strategies and battalions,” added Charlie with a shrug. “I mean, I like all the stuff about heroes and battles, although there’s also the much sadder part of the deaths.”

  “That’s true,” replied Marcus. “War has an epic quality that is always appealing, but it also has a dramatic side that makes it much darker.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Well, I like the epic side,” explained the boy. “And I was really enjoying that epic side in the stories about Napoleon. They were like the stories about Alexander the Great or Julius Caesar that Mum tells us... until I saw the other side that wasn’t so fun.”

  “The Napoleonic wars had both sides,” said Marcus, “but so did the wars of Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great. Napoleon, however, is much closer to us in time, and it isn’t the same for us to know that he invaded places that we can recognize easily, like Austria, Spain or Belgium, as it is to read about ancient places like Gaul, Germania, Persia or Bactria.”

  Charlie pondered his father’s explanations for a few moments.

  “The closer an historical event is to our own time, the more involved we feel with it,” clarified Marcus. “In other words, you’ll always be less hard on Caesar than you’ll be on Napoleon, even though you’re judging similar behavior.”

  “But it’s not just the wars. I feel kind of the same way about everything,” confessed Charlie. “Napoleon did a lot of good things, like building sewage systems and highways, or the fact that scientists could research and make discoveries, that artists could create great artworks, or that everyone was equal before the law and that children could go to school even though their parents were poor.”

  “Yes, all those things were important,” said Marcus, smiling at the order of importance his son had given to the achievements.

  “But then he ruined it all with things like invading every country he knew, and appointing family members to rule them even when they weren’t as smart as he was, or saying that everyone could vote but not including women, and then making himself Emperor for life so that nobody could vote at all anymore... Not to mention how he treated Joséphine. So I really don’t know what to make of him.”

  “You’ll develop an opinion on him in time,” replied Marcus. “But if you want to judge someone fairly, you need to remember that absolutely all of us have our virtues and our failings. As good as the former may be, we cannot forget the latter, and vice versa. And there is no better defense or harsher condemnation than a person’s own deeds.”

  Charlie thought for a moment, trying to come to a decision about Bonaparte. He saw clearly that his father had no intention of giving him the answer, but wanted him to find it for himself, because at that moment Marcus went off to the kitchen to help Maggie prepare dinner.

  When she saw her father leave the library, Lisa let out a sigh.

  “Thank God! I thought you’d never finish!” she exclaimed. “You should leave those historical debates for later, when we’ve completed our mission.”

  The boy looked at her in surprise, wondering what had gotten into her.

  “Come on, I have something to show you,” she said, pointing to the computer screen.

  Charlie went over to her.

  “After the expedition to Egypt, all things Egyptian became fashionable in France. Napoleon himself promoted it, because it was great propaganda for his military victories there,” Lisa explained.

  “I don’t think you like him very much,” remarked the boy.

  “In fact, while he was First Consul of France, he ordered a dinner set to be made with battle scenes and traditional images of Egypt on it,” Lisa went on, without responding to her brother’s remark. “It was known as the ‘Egyptian Dinner Service’, Here, have a look at this.”

  She showed him a picture of a cobalt-blue colored plate. The bottom was covered by a portrait of a bearded man with a turban surrounded by two concentric rows of gold-painted hieroglyphic symbols with thin outer borders. Charlie studied the man closely to determine whether it was that Costaz character that his sister was so concerned about. But then Lisa enlarged the image and moved the mouse to point to a few of the symbols.

  “A cross, a woman, a river, three crosses, and another woman,” she said, smiling with visible satisfaction.

  “And here too,” she added, opening another picture with cups, jugs and more plates from the set of dinnerware.

  Charlie was astounded. He remembered at once what that series of symbols meant.

  “And here,” his sister went on, showing him another picture.

  This time it wasn’t a piece of crockery, but a large, luxurious room, possibly in a palace. Charlie focused his attention on one of the walls, where an Egyptian landscape had been painted in a ridiculously childish style, framed by rows of what were supposed to be hieroglyphic symbols.

  “What’s that?” asked the boy.

  “The Egyptian Room in the Villa San Martino, Napoleon’s summer home during his exile on Elba,” she replied. “Napoleon himself commissioned a man named Pietro Ravelli to paint the frescoes.”

  “He’s put a nose on the Sphinx and its face looks like a cartoon,” remarked the boy.

  “Yes, but look at the symbols here on this side,” said Lisa, pointing to them with the cursor. “A cross, a woman, a river, three crosses and a woman.”

  “Wow, Lisa! You’re a first-class investigator!” exclaimed Charlie in amazement.

  Lisa smiled gratefully at his compliment.

  “My theory is that either Joséphine or Napoleon had the second papyrus scroll. Denon must have given it to one of them as a gift in return for allowing him to go on the expedition to Egypt, or to both of them, because at the time they were still married,” she said in an excited voice. “And they used the papyrus scroll as an example to copy all these symbols, although Nefertiti’s name must have especially caught their eye, because they’re the only symbols that are repeated, and always in the same order.”

  “Maybe it was because of the three crosses, because they had some special meaning for them,” suggested
Charlie. “You said it was like a good-luck charm.”

  “That’s what I think, and you can be sure that we’re going to find out,” she replied. “There are only two people who will definitely know the answer to that question. One is Joséphine, but we can’t ask her, because she died in 1814 and we can only travel back as far as the 30th of November 1818.”

  “Unless we want to wait nine weeks so that the cape will let us choose any date again,” said Charlie.

  “And of course, we’re not going to do that because the Nefertiti exhibition will be opening in just over two weeks. So we have to ask the only other person who could know the answer. None other than Napoleon Bonaparte himself.”

  Charlie nodded calmly, as the prospect didn’t seem the least bit challenging to him. He’d gotten along very well with the great leader when they had met in the Tuileries Palace, and he wouldn’t have minded getting his hands on some more of the licorice that the Emperor kept in his pockets.

  “But it’s going to be a little hard to explain why I haven’t grown at all in nine years,” remarked Charlie. “You might not like him much, but I can assure you he’s pretty smart.”

  “Believe me, little brother, this time it doesn’t matter. When we go see him, he’ll be in exile on the island of Saint Helena. He was living there in Longwood House, a farm in a remote spot that was absolutely impossible to get into or out of without being seen. The soldiers who guarded him were always outside. If Napoleon raises the alarm, we’ll have more than enough time to get out of there before anyone arrives to help him.”

  “When do we go?” asked the boy.

  “If I have time to finish the dossier, we could go tomorrow.”

  Charlie nodded.

  “This time everything has to go perfectly,” said Lisa. “I’m afraid this will be our last chance.”

  CHAPTER XXI: Saint Helena

  Max met with Emanuel Gentile to bring him up to date on his investigations. Like an officer reporting advances in a battle to his general, he outlined the details of the situation coolly and concisely, free of opinions or sentimentality. At no point did he express his regret over the fact that the owner of the cape was a young boy, but he was certain that the Grand Master would be just as upset as he was about it.

  “A Palatine‼” burst out Mr. Gentile with a delighted laugh. “What a stroke of luck, my boy!!” he added, slapping Max on the back enthusiastically.

  Max kept his composure, concealing his astonishment and indignation. He loved the Grand Master like a father, but he was terribly disappointed that the old man only seemed to care about the advantages that getting a hold of such a cape could offer them. To celebrate it openly, without considering what it meant for the fate of an innocent child, was absolutely unseemly.

  “And its owner is a child!!” exclaimed Gentile, with a broad smile.

  Max swallowed hard, concentrating on keeping up a poker face, although his heart was beating furiously in his chest.

  “It’s just what we need to be able to name you my successor. Nobody could compete with a Palatine, together with the other capes you have. At last, a little bit of luck,” he added.

  Max kept walking by his side, without speaking a word.

  “You must uncover the identity of this young brat,” insisted the old man. “He’s too easy and valuable a target. Any one of those vermin could discover him and beat us to the punch.”

  Max looked at him without replying. Although Gentile was quite right, he didn’t approve of the disparaging term his mentor had used to refer to their enemies, much less to the boy. The Grand Master’s position within the Order had been extremely tenuous for some time, and Max knew that in recent months his physical strength had been waning. But his behavior was quite disgraceful. Such a lack of compassion in one who was almost certainly the most powerful man in the world was unforgivable. Perhaps it was merely a lapse of reason caused by the tension of the moment. Or perhaps Emanuel Gentile was not the great man Max had believed he was; perhaps he was not so different from the men he was fighting against.

  “You must get to work,” ordered the old man. “And bring me the identity of that boy, or his blasted cape.”

  “Very well,” replied Max laconically.

  And he left at once to fulfill his mission.

  . . .

  The children appeared in a very small room in which a wooden table, two chairs and a cast-iron bed filled up all the space available. In one of the walls there were two small windows through which the moonlight shone softly, casting a dull light across the room. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional creaking of some part of the house or by the gusts of wind that every now and then rocked the outer walls.

  Lisa signaled to her brother not to make a sound. From what she’d been able to ascertain, there would be other people asleep in the house apart from Bonaparte. She opened the cloth bag into which Charlie’s backpack had transformed, and took out a flashlight and the dossier she had prepared. The boy stared at her in stunned silence. His sister was taking her role of researcher very seriously. She hadn’t merely stuffed a pile of papers into a simple folder, but had gone to the trouble of binding the whole thing and adding adhesive labels of different colors to each section to be able to find the information they needed as quickly as possible.

  Lisa put the dossier down on the table, turned to a page labeled with the words “Floor Plan”, and opened it up to reveal a map of the house.

  “That’s Napoleon’s bedroom over there,” she whispered, pointing to one of the doors. “Go in and talk to him. I’ll stay here and keep watch.”

  Charlie nodded. He then took a paper and pen out of his backpack, adjusted the dials on the place annulus on his bracelet, and disappeared.

  The room where he reappeared was the same size as the last one, although as it was more sparsely furnished it looked larger. A fireplace in the opposite wall kept the room warm and was apparently meant to support the seemingly impossible task of giving the place an elegant look. Three portraits and a marble bust above the mantelpiece also aided in this task, although they didn’t achieve it entirely. Next to the fireplace were a small couch and a nightstand, creating a space evidently intended to be a reading corner. On the left, right next to the only door, there was a cast-iron bed, in which Napoleon Bonaparte lay sleeping.

  The boy stood in the middle of the room watching him while he scratched his head and tried to come up with something to say to wake him up. But as nothing particularly brilliant occurred to him, he went over to the fireplace to look at the portraits, hoping to find inspiration there. Meanwhile, in the adjacent room, Lisa had her ear to the door to listen to what was going on, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Finally, she decided to open the door slightly to check on her brother’s progress. She turned the knob very slowly, and pulled the door toward her as quietly as she could. When she did, the warped wood let out a muffled creak that woke up Bonaparte, who was always a light sleeper.

  “Is that you, Las Cases?” he asked, raising his head.

  Lisa held her breath.

  “No, your Majesty. It’s Charlot D’Artagnan,” replied Charlie, as politely as he could. “I’m sorry for waking you.”

  Napoleon froze, staring at the boy.

  “D’Artagnan?! Good God!” he exclaimed, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. “How did you get in here? This place is impregnable!”

  “Forgive me for appearing at this time of night without warning, but I have to ask you something important,” explained Charlie, moving toward him.

  Bonaparte looked at him in bewilderment. He remembered him perfectly, playing with Joséphine’s little dog and eating his licorice. He always had an extraordinary facility for recalling names and faces, but this time it was easier than ever, because the boy looked exactly the same as the last time he’d seen him, nine years earlier.

  “You haven’t changed at all since I saw you in the Palace! You haven’t grown an inch!” he exclaimed incredulously as he sat up to see him bett
er. “I don’t know whether you’re an angel or a ghost, although in the pitiful circumstances you find me in, I would prefer to believe the former.”

  Lisa relaxed a little. Although surprised, Bonaparte seemed to accept her brother’s visit calmly, without being too startled or calling for help.

  “What is the matter, your Majesty?” asked Charlie cautiously, trying not to sound too nosy.

  “I suffer from severe stomach pains. I believe they’ll end up killing me,” replied Napoleon.

  “My grandfather has the same problem, but he takes some yellow pills and he feels much better. It’s a shame I didn’t bring any,” said the boy, trying to console him, although he knew Napoleon was right. Those pains would get worse and would lead to his death, which would come in a little more than two years.

  “I don’t have any of the licorice you liked so much either. Since I came here I’ve had to give up many of my good habits,” replied Bonaparte. “But tell me, why have you come?”

  “Your Majesty, I must ask you a question,” replied Charlie with determination. “Empress Joséphine was fond of Egyptian artifacts, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, of course. She collected mummies, statuettes...”

  “And papyrus scrolls, too.”

  “Yes, she had several scrolls,” answered Bonaparte, beginning to look quite intrigued.

  “But I wanted to ask you about one in particular,” the boy went on, taking out the paper and pencil and beginning to scribble down some symbols. “One that has a cross, a woman, a river...”

  “... Three crosses and another woman,” they said in unison.

  Lisa leaned forward, drawn in by the tension and excitement. Bonaparte had recognized the symbols, which meant that he was familiar with the papyrus scroll.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Napoleon. “Then it is true!”

  “What is true?” asked Charlie.

  “Joséphine always said it was a kind of protective charm connected to Saint Helena, the Empress of Constantinople, and the legend of the Three Crosses and the True Cross,” explained Bonaparte. “So she put those symbols everywhere, saying they would bring good luck: on a desk she had made for her bedroom, on an Egyptian dinner service... she even designed a watch with those symbols on it... When I learned that Joséphine had died, I myself ordered it to be painted in the Egyptian room of my palace on Elba in her memory. It’s curious; I always laughed at that silly superstition of hers. I told her that the papyrus scroll and Saint Helena were from two different eras and that they couldn’t possibly be related in any way, and that she wouldn’t have the saint’s protection by putting those symbols everywhere. And now, ironically, I am going to end my days on the island that bears her name. It would seem that fate is mocking me.”