Napoleon Must Die Read online

  “My behalf, it is? It is Napoleon’s behalf, not anyone else’s.” He lifted the flap that opened onto another length of tent. “Do you have any estimates prepared regarding our casualties?” It was a casual challenge, one intended to put her into her place.

  “A few,” said Victoire, “based upon a few of the most recent conflicts. There have been five moderately severely wounded to each one dead or hopeless, but that reckoned without cannon. Therefore it is my assumption that the recent engagement will show an increase of fatalities. Desaix says that a siege would be worse yet.”

  “There’s good sense in what you tell me,” agreed Larrey, his attention arrested at last. “You appreciate the military realities. A remarkable feat, Madame. I offer you my felicitations. Which I will extend to your husband as soon as possible. I wish there was a way to guess how many casualties there will be. We know one thing, the further the battles are from here, the less wounded will make it back.” Victoire couldn’t tell if the surgeon was being scientific, or really didn’t feel the implications of what he was saying. Larrey studied the long rows of cots. “We try to keep these tents on the eastern side of the larger tents, and thereby reduce some of the heat.” There was a helpless tone in the doctor’s voice. The air in the tent was even hotter than the midday heat and there was a distinct smell of putrefaction.

  “A sensible decision,” said Victoire, unaware that she was saying anything offensive.

  * * *

  The Pasha’s visitation to the French camp secured the attention of all the men who were not actively busy elsewhere. Even Victoire decided to devote several pages to it in her usual letter to Vernet.

  This is the Pasha who agreed to surrender. He is a fat man with many chins and he rides in a sort of carriage. He came with an escort of ten Mamelukes. They looked nervous, and most likely fought against us in that battle by the Pyramids. The guards were followed by treasure carriers, who brought a chest of silver and some elaborately carved chairs inlaid with gold trim.

  Behind this lot were the ladies of his hareem, heavily veiled and covered in clothing that must have been stifling in the heat. They were guarded by some striking men in loose shirts and tight trousers. Larrey said these were eunuchs, a most disgusting concept. I cannot see any Frenchman subjecting himself to such treatment. Since no men were allowed near them, I was asked to bring these ladies water and cloths to cool themselves. One spoke some Greek and we were able to converse. She translated for the others. Many were quite intelligent, even witty. Their stories of being kept in isolated rooms, purdah, it is called, were most awful. They only get out on such state occasions as this. I think their master (I cannot think of that man as being a husband to them all) hoped to impress us with the size of his hareem.

  What appears to be the main function of this procession, after all the display and compliments, was a gift offered to Napoleon by the Pasha himself. The gift was a Mameluke soldier. You may speculate on the reservations about Roustam-Raza, who has sworn to the Muslim gods to protect and preserve the life of Napoleon Buonaparte for as long as Napoleon stands against his enemies. He is said to be faithful unto death. Only when Napoleon has no enemies or when all his enemies are vanquished is Roustam-Raza released from his vow.

  You may imagine, my husband, how Napoleon has been in a quandary about this soldier. To ignore the gift would offend the Pasha mightily, which is contrary to his interests at this time. At the same time, he is reluctant to set the Egyptian to tasks that could be of crucial importance to this campaign. He has stated that he will make his decision about the Mameluke known before the end of the day after tomorrow, and that in the meantime, the Mameluke is to hold himself in readiness, awaiting his orders.

  She read over the words and decided that there could be no objection to what she had written since the whole of the camp buzzed with speculation about the Mameluke soldier. If her letter were read, no one could take exception to what she told Vernet, for surely he would have the same news from others. She signed it with great affection and scrawled her name.

  When she had sealed the letter and addressed it, she went in search of the courier who would take letters to Jaffa. Messengers left regularly for Jaffa to deliver Napoleon’s most recent instructions, and to keep him abreast of the developments there. She brought a few extra coins to ensure her letter’s safe delivery.

  “Seems a shame, leaving a pretty little wife like you alone while your husband camps outside the walls of Jaffa,” said the courier when Victoire handed him the letter and the money. He was a hussar, the white fur in the lining of his pelisse tan from desert sand and dust. Like all hussars he wore his jacket hanging from one shoulder and sported a large moustache. “What with you coming all this way to be alone and there being so few other women here, er, for you talk with.”

  “He has trust in me as I have trust in him,” said Victoire in a tone that left no doubt as to her meaning. “If that is what my husband’s duty demands of me, I’ll do my utmost to serve as best I can.” She glared at the courier, then turned and walked off, her face set.

  * * *

  Napoleon glared at Berthier, the lamplight striking one side of his face only, leaving the other in deep shadow. “What am I to do with this gift of the Pasha? I cannot return him—that would be an intolerable insult and we’d be fighting again. But he’s a Mameluke. Who knows what this oath to Allah means?” He slapped Berthier’s desk. “I’d like your recommendation, Berthier.”

  “If you are truly interested in what I would do with him, it will be my pleasure to tell you.” Berthier sighed and shoved himself to his feet. “If it were for me to decide, I would assign the Mameluke some duty that would occupy him in such a way that we could determine if he is as honorable as the Pasha claims he is.”

  “Do you have such a duty in mind?” demanded Napoleon. He spun on his heel at the sound of a horse approaching the tent. “Who are we expecting?”

  “I don’t know,” said Berthier warily.

  The horse went by the tent and a few seconds later there was a greeting shouted by one of the guards.

  “A messenger from Desaix,” said Berthier as the rider shouted out his name.

  “What is this about?” Napoleon asked of the canvas. “I have been demanding regular reports for over a week, and they still arrive at these hours. It had better be current news and urgent.”

  “Desaix would inform you himself if there were serious trouble brewing,” said Berthier as he ran his hand through his curly hair. “And I would insist on presenting it to you, whatever the hour.”

  “For that, you have my gratitude,” said Napoleon, his manner distracted. “This land is robbing many of our soldiers of their purpose. The heat draws away their strength and they are mesmerized by this place. They suppose that riches are hidden in the sand and they do not attend to their duties. We need to take action. Only when they are in the field again will these soldiers remember they’re Frenchmen and not brigands.”

  “You are thinking of the scepter,” said Berthier heavily.

  “What progress have you made?” Napoleon asked, making no attempt to deny his interest. “I do not want to believe that your staff cannot do the work you assign.”

  Berthier moved a few of the papers on his desk. “What troubles me is that there has been no effort to move the scepter.”

  “You are assuming that Vernet has it?” Napoleon inquired. “Are you still as certain as you were before?”

  “Who else am I to suspect? Your officers knew of the treasure and only a few of them were party to—” Berthier bit his thumbnail. “I don’t want to speak against anyone, but the circumstances show that if any of them are likely, Vernet is the most likely.”

  “I won’t dispute that,” said Napoleon. “That’s why he’s in Jaffa. The thought of him betraying my trust is disturbing.” He folded his arms. “You are not supposing that he has taken the scepter with him, are you?”


  “No,” Berthier said reluctantly. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

  “There we agree,” Napoleon declared. “So you continue to suspect that his wife has the scepter, that she is hiding it at her husband’s orders. Is that a fair assumption.”

  “Yes,” said Berthier. He glanced toward the door of the tent as shouts rang in the distance. “They are learning to be away from home.”

  “You mean that they are learning to be on campaign,” Napoleon corrected. “We have to season these troops quickly. I don’t want to be distracted with trouble like Vernet. Nor can I have my officers stop trusting each other. Find some way to guard his wife without being too obvious.”

  “She’s working with Larrey. He tells me she is very good with the wounded. She’s also been tending to some of the women, the ones who are suffering from the heat.” He fiddled with his papers again.

  “It’s good to know she isn’t one of those who wilt,” said Napoleon. “There are too many languishing wives with us. It is why I forbade them on the convoy.” He put his hands on his side of Berthier’s desk. “Now listen to me. I want this matter solved and I want no fuss about it.”

  Berthier nodded. “And the Mameluke?”

  “Put him to work, something that will occupy him but will not give him access to anything too important. I don’t want him running back to the Pasha with our plans in his powder horn.” He paced in the confined tent, which only seemed to add to his tautness. “But I’m not satisfied. If this fellow is not truly my man, I have to know it. We must test him without disgracing him. I leave it to you to find the way to do that.”

  “I’ll do everything I can,” said Berthier with feeling.

  “He speaks French, so I’ve been told,” said Napoleon as an afterthought. “Do not be too open in your conversation with him. It would not be the first time a man spied with just his ears.”

  “I will be careful,” said Berthier.

  “I know you will,” said Napoleon with a persuasive smile. “That is why I trust you with this task.” He looked over the papers Berthier had spread out. “Not that you haven’t enough to do.”

  Berthier paused before he responded. “You have only to give me work, General, and I will do it to the best of my ability. I believe in your greatness.”

  “And in the greatness of France,” added Napoleon at once.

  “Of course,” said Berthier hastily, and stared down at the papers once more.

  * * *

  Everything about Roustam-Raza was foreign—the way he dressed, the way he moved, his accent, his attitude, his smell. He had braced his feet apart as if expecting to repel invaders as he stood where Napoleon had stood the night before. “I am told to follow your orders,” he said, watching Berthier with hot eyes. It was mid-afternoon and he had just risen from his midday nap.

  “So I was informed,” said Berthier, acutely uncomfortable in the Mameluke’s presence. The man refused to sit and towered over the aide-de-camp. “I’ve been told to find necessary work for you. And after much thought I have decided on what you are to do.” He swabbed his handkerchief across his brow and told himself it was only the heat in his tent that made him sweat.

  “I am ready,” said Roustam-Raza, thumping his hand to his chest. The bright red material of his loosely worn shirt was left moist where it had been pressed against his chest. “I have been told by Napoleon to obey your orders as if they were his own.”

  Berthier coughed and then nibbled at the cuticle of his middle finger. “As his aide-de-camp I am obliged to act in his best interests. This is an instance when he and I are in accord.” He made himself sit straighter. “There is a person you are to watch. I will introduce you to her shortly, and I expect—”

  “A woman?” burst out Roustam-Raza before Berthier finished. “You wish me to guard a woman?”

  “Yes,” said Berthier stonily.

  “This is Napoleon’s woman,” said Roustam-Raza hopefully, doing his best to salvage some honor from this unthinkable disgrace.

  “No,” said Berthier, dashing Roustam-Raza’s hopes. “She is the wife of one of his officers.”

  Roustam-Raza drew himself up and spat. “I am not a eunuch in the hareem, that I must watch an errant wife.”

  Berthier realized he had made an error with the Mameluke and looked for some method to repair any damage he may have done. “It is very necessary that she be watched. It is possible that her husband has stolen”—he broke off before speaking of the scepter—“something of great value from Napoleon.”

  “I will watch the husband,” stated Roustam-Raza.

  “The husband is far away, where he can do no harm. His wife remains here. We suspect that her husband put the ... the valuable thing into her hands. We must discover what has become of it.” Berthier wanted to sound stern but was afraid that he lacked the authority Roustam-Raza required.

  “I will hunt for the valuable thing,” he decided aloud. “I will bring it to Napoleon to show my devotion.”

  “You’ll show your devotion better by watching this woman.” He raised his hands in warning. “She’s not to suspect you.”

  “Women are not clever enough to suspect me, or any man,” Roustam-Raza said, dismissing the possibility. Finally the Mameluke chose to sit in the chair he had been offered earlier. Even sitting he seemed alert and ominous to Berthier, who was relieved he had found a reason to keep the warrior away from the general.

  Berthier shook his head. “This is a clever woman, more like a promising boy than a woman. She has learning and wit. You’re not to underestimate her.”

  “No woman is clever,” Roustam-Raza informed Berthier. “But her husband may be, and if she is obedient, she will be hard to defeat.” He fondled the hilt of the long dagger in his belt. “If she is stubborn, I will do what must be done to persuade her.”

  “No,” said Berthier emphatically. “There’s to be nothing of that sort. You are to watch her, to see what action she undertakes and to stop her from moving the valuable thing beyond our reach.”

  “I will consider what you tell me,” said Roustam-Raza, his tone not very promising. “Who is this clever woman?”

  “She is the wife of Gendarme Major, Inspector Lucien Vernet.” He studied the back of his hand, frowning at the nails. “He is acting Inspector-General.”

  “Gendarme officer,” said Roustam-Raza with the manner of someone given a plate of rotten meat. “Such men should not betray.”

  “Yes. Precisely.” Berthier sighed. “His wife, Madame Vernet, must be watched. She is not to be permitted to assist her husband.”

  “It is fitting for a woman to assist her husband,” said Roustam-Raza with sudden stubbornness. “There are a few things women must do; they must be mothers and they must obey the will of their fathers and husbands. Anything else is unnatural.”

  “Very true,” said Berthier, and for an instant thought only of his own fruitless love of a married aristocratic woman whose name he dared not speak aloud for fear of compromising her. “But women are such ... whimsical creatures.”

  “Exactly why it is necessary they obey men,” said Roustam-Raza, satisfied that he and Berthier understood one another. “I will not do anything that will lead a woman away from her tasks. I will do nothing to incite her to set aside the will of her husband. But anything short of that I will do.” He regarded Berthier ferociously. “I will permit no danger to Napoleon. I have sworn this.”

  “So you have, so you have.” He rose. “She is coming here when she is through tending the wounded. She ought to be here shortly.”

  “Tending the wounded is worthy,” said Roustam-Raza, “so long as she is not in blood herself. A woman in blood will cause men to bleed as well.”

  Berthier colored. “I know nothing about that,” he said stiffly.

  “It would be wise to learn.” Roustam-Raza touched the weapons he carrie
d, a wickedly curved sword and two well-oiled pistols of English make, and nodded. “What will her husband say when he learns of this?”

  “He won’t learn of it. And even if he does, he’ll say nothing,” said Berthier with certainty. “He is in enough trouble as it is.”

  “A wise man does not behave in any way that will cause others to question his character,” Roustam-Raza declared. “How is it that this man can be under suspicion and have advanced so far, and with a silly wife?”

  “She isn’t silly; I’ve warned you about that. He cannot account for his time when the ... object was taken. We all stood there together and only we knew of it. The others have someone to vouch for them. Other than just a wife.” Berthier fingered the back of his chair. “And of all of them, he has the least money and the poorest expectations. His father-in-law left his daughter an independence but it is not enough to support a military officer.”

  “So he is nothing more than a thief,” said Roustam-Raza contemptuously. “He is not deserving of his advancement.”

  “If he is the thief, you are correct,” said Berthier. “But until I am certain that he took the object, I will not act against him, nor encourage anyone else to.” He gave Roustam-Raza a long, hard stare. “If you alert them, you will share the burden of their guilt.”

  “Of course,” said Roustam-Raza. “That is correct.” He sank down onto the floor of the tent, his legs crossing as he made himself comfortable.

  Berthier did his best to contain his misgivings. “You must treat her with respect. Frenchwomen expect it.”

  “You French are very foolish about women. It is not necessary that you respect them, only that you turn them to good purpose. But it is the teaching of your faith that softens you.” He made a gesture to show that he did not object to the weakness of French Christians. “The Prophet defended his mother. Is this Madame Vernet a mother of sons?”