Frankenstein's Legions (31 page)

If he concurred with that slander Fouché gave no sign of it.

‘And you could do this?’ he asked.

‘I—or anyone,’ answered Julius. ‘Indeed, I could even improve the process employing lens to focus the sun’s rays. Or something similar...’

With a wave of one hand Frankenstein dismissed the problem as a minor, merely technical, matter. Nothing beyond a morning’s work and few hours of Swiss expertise. His nation’s reputation for mastery of intricate devices such as timepieces preceded him and paved the way.

Frankenstein perceived his companion was a quick learner, and bold besides. Though appearances suggested otherwise, he dared to dash headlong into worlds not his own. In short, Julius concluded, he was that rarity: a buccaneer amongst bureaucrats. Also, probably way more important than he looked. Not that that was difficult: he looked like a provincial child-molester.

‘And the mummy component,
monsieur
?’ asked Fouché.

‘Of no intrinsic value: mere superstition: utility by association. Granted, mummies were people preserved for an afterlife, but not of the active, Lazaran, variety we are concerned with here. The two things, superficially akin, are in truth entirely unconnected. Beef steak would do just as well, if sufficiently sun-dried. As would scrag-end or giblets. I’d recommend any of the cheaper cuts if cost is a consideration...’

More notes were dashed down, in a positive frenzy of pencil work now. Again, Fouché spoke without looking up.

‘I regret to inform you,
monsieur
, that it is. Ordinarily, matters vital to the Emperor are not bound by sordid budgetary fetters.’

Julius mentally sat up. ‘Emperor.’  It was instructive that he called him that. Servants of the Convention shouldn’t.

‘If his Majesty wished to dine on nothing but black swan,’ Fouché continued, compounding his crimes, ‘then he could and would. However, permit me to confide to you the quite shocking cost of procuring a regular supply of mummies. Not to mention ensuring their genuine antiquity. Rogue merchants descend upon our need like flies to a turd. There have been attempts to foist upon us pseudo mummies of quite recent vintage. Murder victims apparently, sourced from the Orient where life is cheap, and then subjected to crash-mummification via chemical baths. Or so one would-be fraudster told us...’

The Minister finally raised his face and locked looks with Julius. ‘Under torture, naturally...’

Frankenstein wouldn’t oblige him with the sought for reaction, or indeed any give-away.

‘Naturally,’ he agreed.

‘So,’ Fouché went on, head bowed again, ‘to acquire the requisite supply the Egyptian demands we have had to go to extreme lengths and expense. Which, of course, we are happy to do for our beloved Emperor.’

‘And country,’ prompted Julius, feeling playful now that he found his point well received.

‘Just so,’ confirmed Fouché, unfazed. ‘However, the Revolutionary government, though generous in many respects, is not possessed of infinite resources. Securing a steady stream of millennia old mummies has caused us to—what is it the English say?—feel the pinch. Which is an apt choice of phrase because it is those same English who have made it so expensive...’

It is not the done thing in polite company, and certainly not in the presence of patriots, to dwell on a country’s misfortunes and defeats—and never less so than in the case of the French. Yet it was he who’d broached the subject and almost invited comment.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Julius—but considerately, as if dredging up an obscure memory of no great weight in the first place, ‘Lord Nelson, the Battle of the Nile...’

‘The very same,
monsieur
. Leading to the stranding of our expeditionary force in Egypt and their eventual defeat.’

Despite himself, Julius was doubled impressed by this functionary. He’d never yet heard a Frenchman baldly admit defeat before. ‘Betrayal’ certainly, ‘fate’ quite often, but never the dreaded ‘D’ word. Here was a man specially trained to face cold hard facts. Or possibly someone already so cold as to be immune to them.

‘Since which time,’ said Fouché, ‘the English naval blockade, latterly under the revived Neo-Nelson, has closed the sea-lanes to us to the point of strangulation. Our supply of original Egyptian relics ran out long ago and you cannot conceive the pains required to procure ancient cadavers and safely ferry them here. Nor will I impart these details to you...’

The Minister’s gaze had risen again. Just like those implied secret ships it carried an important cargo: the message that it not forgotten Julius was a foreigner, with divergent loyalties.

‘Suffice to say, our country could support several divisions for the same cost. Twice as many if composed of New-citizens. Or perhaps raise another fleet to contest that intolerable English command of the Seas...’

‘After Trafalgar?’ queried Julius, greatly daring.

‘After Trafalgar,’ Fouché confirmed. ‘Even after Yarmouth Harbour...’

Mere mention of that more recent and still worse debacle, which Julius had politely omitted, suggested they were on new and uniquely candid territory. Then Fouché proved it.

‘Though perhaps you are right. Maybe the seas are forbidden us whilst England has so much as a row-boat left. And Lord Nelson is proof against a sniper’s bullet now. But there is more than one way to skin a cat—or flay a nation. In any case, you follow my argument: we have diverted vast resources to the Egyptian’s demands. Diverted elsewhere they might have succoured several campaigns. Now, if what you say is true it may be of inestimable value—and I use the term advisedly—to our cause.’

‘Which is what?’ asked Julius, opportunistic as any fake mummy dealer.

‘Which is confidential,’ replied Fouché, sealing off that promising avenue. ‘Although you may safely consider it to be no petty project. On the contrary, it is a cause of some importance...’

Frankenstein shrugged. Every human’s parochial little agenda seemed important to them. In the majority it swelled to fill their entire panorama till they could see nothing else.

‘Which, by sad extension,’ Fouché concluded, ‘makes you important to us.’  He snapped his notebook shut. ‘Congratulations.’

Even Fouché’s standard tones suggested that a heart of stone lurked beneath his stone-coloured coat. Now he emphasised the point. And despite that being absolutely no surprise, Frankenstein’s stomach squirmed. It was the first time that had happened in some while. Did it mean he was reacquiring an attachment to life?  If so, should he be pleased or berate himself?

Therefore it was no mere curiosity that made him enquire:

‘‘Congratulations’?  On what?’

Minister Fouché did not smile. Julius didn’t know it, but people said he never had or would.

‘On your promotion.’

‘Oh, I see...,’ said Julius.

‘And survival,’ added the Minister. ‘Probably...’

*  *  *

The culture at Versailles was such that two enemies could not co-exist, least of all in close proximity or competition. Anything else was an insult to its survival of the fittest ethos.

Hence the vehemence of the Egyptian’s letter and its furious drafting mere minutes after the fracas between him and Frankenstein. A relative innocent in such matters, Julius had not taken counter-measures, and only his incisive intellect during the interview with Minister Fouché saved him.

Now, freshly appointed as new ‘Director of Research’ at the palace, Frankenstein had his appointment confirmed by witnessing the previous occupant’s departure. He was roused from bed and ordered to attend.

It was dawn and the rising sun glinted both on the guillotine’s blade and the Egyptian’s bulging eyes. Purely because of the unearthly hour and for no vindictive reason, Frankenstein was unable to suppress a yawn. The Egyptian, trussed up like a turkey ready for the blade, saw.

In his last use of his head before it was detached, the Egyptian called Julius Frankenstein something that made even the hardened executioner wince.

Chapter 8: SWORD OF DAMOCLES (2)

After that little display Frankenstein hardly needed further proof of the presiding regime’s ruthlessness. Nevertheless, new and compelling evidence arrived the very next morning. That and the lesson to be very careful in your choice of words in further interviews with whoever the Bureaucrat was.

Whilst scouring his new offices clear of all traces of the Egyptian’s presence Julius was informed a delivery had arrived requiring his personal attention.

It proved to be a wagon, under escort by Old Guard and also under tarpaulin. Straightaway, Frankenstein feared the worst. A cull of innocent peasants perhaps, plucked from the fields for him to start a new program of mummy-free research?  Or maybe a selection of battlefield or guillotine fresh cadavers, hand-picked to be of fit-for-an-Emperor quality?

Julius cautiously sniffed over the draped tarpaulin. The fall of the material and lack of stench suggested happier alternatives.

Some of the Guardsmen smiled wickedly, wrinkling their moustaches in cruel amusement. They knew but weren’t saying.

‘You could at least look pleased,
monsieur
,’ said the most senior or shameless. ‘We sweated blood to get these for you!’

They were watching and waiting. There was nothing else for it but to plunge in.

Frankenstein lifted a corner of the tarpaulin—and recoiled.

‘How… how could you?’ he spluttered.

*  *  *

That was, he realised even at the time, a weak and womanish thing to say. It would do the rounds of Old Guard drinking holes for years hence. Oh, how they would laugh!

For the space it took to say it, Julius didn’t care. The cart did contain corpses after all, of a sort. But not the kind he was hardened to. Not the usual abused Divine handiwork, torn into components ready for the attentions of Dr. Frankenstein.

And yet that same Dr. Frankenstein, who’d worked on the very worst that robbed graves could offer with unchanged expression and undiminished appetite, could now hardly bring himself to look.

At the same time it was sickeningly brought home to him how far he’d come, how far he’d sunk, and the barbarians he’d sold his talents to. Here and now, spread before his appalled gaze, were the fruits of all those concessions and compromises.

Julius now recalled with great force the Bureaucrat noting his suggestion about how lenses would speed the sun-drying process. Accordingly, an order must have been framed and soldiers sent out. Merely a footling detail in the daily round of Government.

  But also a most memorable day, surely, for the observatories that were ransacked as a result. All the signs indicated little patience and still less compunction. Where mountings had been too troublesome to detach, they’d simply been wrenched off, or hacked away by sword.

After all, it was only the lenses that were required. What did blade marks on the telescopes matter when their insides had to come out anyway?

Frankenstein chilled himself considering the streamlined logic of it. He declined to look too closely lest he see astronomers’ blood on their kidnapped babies, or severed hands still gripping tightly.

There must be several whole observatories worth here—major ones too, judging by the scale of the instruments. One casual causal word from Dr Frankenstein and all astronomical endeavour in a broad swathe round Paris had ceased. Yet another of his family’s glorious contributions to science!

Julius’ thoughts had raced far in a short time; a wobbly tightrope walk over an abyss. Meanwhile, back in the material world, the soldiers were still chuckling at his expense.

‘How “could” we?’ mimicked their spokesman, a man with a rift valley of a scar down his brow, ending in the obliteration of an eye. ‘How could we?  Well, its pretty simply, ain’t it lads?  ‘Specially when you’ve got a decent sized axe!’

It was like a bucket of cold water in the face to Julius, a necessary corrective. Quite inadvertently, while only intending to being cruel they had been kind.

Julius realised that he was the odd one out, the one individual out of step in the parade of life, not them. Outwardly at least he must confirm his pace with theirs.

He reached into the cart and heaved out a murdered telescope. He peered down the tube that would see the stars no more. The lens lurking inside must be eight centimetres breadth or more—the pride of some observatory or wealthy amateur. Then he cradled it in his arms and beamed.

‘Perfect!’ he said, praising the vandals.

‘You like it?’ queried their scarred spokesman, a mite saddened that the fun seemed over.

‘I love it. I wish you’d got more. Now take the lot to the workshops and have them strip the glass out…’

*  *  *

It was a mark of his success that Frankenstein got to meet the man he termed ‘the Bureaucrat’ again. His first impressions were confirmed by subsequent discreet enquiries. This gentleman only arrived from the outside world in circumstances of some secrecy and great need, for the ‘alphas and omegas’ of Versailles: the launching and ending of projects and careers—and people too, probably. Julius ought to have been honoured—and to have guessed.

He got part way, in speculating that ‘the Bureaucrat’ was somehow linked to the Conventionary Government. Normally, to observe the constitutional decencies, it kept its distance from Napoleon’s operation, but earlier that day Julius had observed state coaches deliver high-ups for consultations. Maybe his Bureaucrat had been amongst them.

Whatever the case, by the time Julius was summoned the rest were gone, although their presence lingered on in the form of minor changes of scenery. The marble bust of the Emperor had been put to sleep under a drape and, in deference to outside dogmas, Fouché was wearing a work costume of flamboyant tricolour cravat and cummerbund. Or rather he was in the process of removing them in haste. Which was a good idea: on him they looked like bouquets on a flood victim.

As Julius entered he was handing the offending garments to a ‘New-citizen’ dresser and being fitted with less committed substitutes.