Napoleon Must Die

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UNDER THE CANVAS
tarpaulins,
darkening as the desert sun set in its now familiar rapid manner, lay the lion’s share of the plunder. The Battle of the Pyramids had given up a rich harvest to the French, and their commander, General Napoleon Buonaparte, had taken the best of what was available. The loot had been left behind at the original French encampment by Napoleon, and was worth more than all of last year’s Directoire budget.

“We must protect this booty Lavallette has delivered to us. He personally sorted the most valuable of it and brought it here,” said Louis Alexandre Berthier to the three officers with him. One was a grizzled marine captain off the
L’Orient,
one of the ships anchored a few miles away. The second man was the commander of half of the army’s cavalry. His left arm was in a sling because of a slight sprain garnered not in the recent battle, but while lifting a horse that had fallen on a trooper the day before. He wore a uniform that was lavished in gold braid and silver thread. It was still covered in dust from the long ride back from the main army. The neatness of the third officer’s uniform annoyed Berthier. Napoleon’s aide, Major Lucien Jeannot Vernet, was the type of man who wore the stiff, high-necked collar of a staff officer and seemed to enjoy it. It was late and they all had worked hard all day, but somehow Vernet had taken the time to change or brush his blue and yellow gendarme’s uniform clean. Vernet had befriended Napoleon during the decisive battle where the young Corsican officer had gained fame for his “whiff of grapeshot” that had been fired into the rioting mobs. As always, Berthier resented anyone with whom he had to share the young general’s regard. “It would not be wise for any of this to wa ... wander. The general promised in his last letter to present the scepter and other pieces to the Directoire.” Everyone knew which general he meant, Napoleon Buonaparte. He looked from one to the next, the lamplight making a halo of his frizzy hair. “There are English spies everywhere.”

“There are Egyptians everywhere,” said Major Vernet in his calm way. “They’ve more reason than the English to want the treasure.”

“But we’re not allowing any Egyptians but water carriers into the camp. Even if they sneaked in, surely they wouldn’t dare risk taking any of these riches.” Louis Alexandre Berthier spoke with the confidence of a man who knew that in the order of the world, France led in civilization, culture, and politics. “How many of your fellows are standing watch here?” he inquired of the marine sergeant who stood by the tent flap.

“Four, sir,” answered the sergeant. He appeared uncomfortable in this exalted company. “We stand two watches each, one during the day and one during the night. Our watches are three hours. I stand mine at noon and for three hours after sundown.” Even before the losses at the Pyramids, the French army was stretched thinly. There were probably only two hundred men capable of fighting in the whole camp, and most of those were officers and so unwilling to stand any watches. The four marines had been all the men Vernet had been able to dragoon for guard duty.

“It’s very tempting, with only a tarpaulin and a tent to protect it—and a single guard,” said Berthier, his frown deepening. “There’s so much wealth here. Gold, rare stones ...”

“What about that magnificent scepter?” asked General Joachim Murat. The cavalry general wore a uniform that rivaled the splendid treasure. Beneath his carefully kept curls and sensitive eyes, the man wore a hussar uniform with a few touches of his own. Among these extras were two rows of buttons made of emeralds and a sable lining. Vernet wondered if he wore the fur during the afternoon heat. The general was directing his question to the sergeant who had stood guard over the loot for a third of the last two nights. “Might they not risk something for that scepter?”

Berthier looked nervously at the tarpaulin, then took his snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket, his most recent attempt to keep from biting his nails. As he inhaled a little pinch, he said, “It is our duty to see they do not get it. Or any of the rest of the treasure.”

Inspector Vernet glowered at the tarpaulin. “It would take one or two mules to move the golden chairs, but that scepter doesn’t weigh so much that a water carrier couldn’t bear it away.” He went and lifted the edge of the canvas.

“Look. He wouldn’t even have to search for it.”

In the lamplight the golden flail gleamed, and its porphyry bands along the handgrip took some of the fire, glowing; it was very old, coming from the time of the Pharaohs and passed through the hands of Egyptians and Nubians and Greeks and Romans, Greeks again, and then into Muslim Egyptians, a symbol of the durability of the country, and a last token of the authority that had raised the Sphinx and the Pyramids. The scepter was made of gold and half again as long as a man’s arm. Precious stones ringed the top, enmeshed in finely wrought designs of silver and turquoise. Of all the booty under the canvas, none was so indicative of Egypt’s subjugation to the French as this glorious scepter that never had beat grain.

General Murat rubbed his sore arm, his handsome features haggard just now from lack of sleep. “You’ve got a point, Vernet.” He patted the tarpaulin. “We’d better get this all into a more secure place. Perhaps in the hold of the flagship, though I mistrust the scum manning those ships almost as much as the Egyptians. Safer there though. First thing tomorrow, Berthier, what do you say?”

“I was told to keep the treasure here, under Vernet’s watch. If Napoleon orders it, I’ll store this treasure wherever he decides is best. Otherwise, it will remain where it is, with its marine guards,” answered Berthier quietly, his dedication showing in the way he stood, the way he spoke Buonaparte’s name. “He’s only a hard day’s ride away. You may warn him, if you think it necessary.”

“Fine, a most correct attitude,” said the handsome, olive-skinned Murat, who, while tired, was already growing impatient to return to the campaign. “We’ll tend to it at dawn.”

“Very good,” said Vernet, giving Berthier a hard look. “In the meantime make sure the guard is fully armed and his weapons charged. I don’t trust the English or the Egyptians. General Buonaparte has placed this treasure in my charge and it is my duty to ensure its safety.”

“Very wise, I’m certain,” said Berthier with faint, damning disgust. “Your wariness does you credit, Vernet.”

General of the Cavalry Joachim Murat glanced at the young Inspector Vernet. “Quite a duty for so young a man, and already a major in the gendarmerie of the Republic. Aren’t most headquarters’ companies commanded by a colonel? You must be considered most promising.” Both Murat and Berthier were generals and only a few years older than the gendarme officer.

Lucien Vernet’s color heightened but he knew better than to answer back. After a pause he answered in a flat voice. “I’ll report to you after we change the guards an hour before dawn.”

“Report to Berthier, as you’re supposed to do. He likes the morning sun. I hope to slumber far past the dawn for a most exquisite change,” answered Murat, making light of it now that he had taken a jab at the young Vernet. Then his voice grew somber. “Unless something goes wrong.”

Murat crossed himself as if he were still a seminarian. “I shouldn’t even joke about it. If any of this treasure disappears, as definitely as could be done by Madame Guillotine, it will put paid to the career of the man who loses it.”

VICTOIRE HEARD HER
husband
rise from his camp bed and make his toilette before getting dressed. It took a moment for her to accept that the night was over. The memories of her husband’s firm body pressed against her, his face buried in her neck and his breath warm and fast as their pleasure grew, were still too fresh. Naked beneath the soft sheets that had, until recently, belonged to a Mameluke noble, Victoire Vernet was still too relaxed to even sit up. Her husband was trying to be quiet, but she could not help but hear the soft clatter of his sword, the rustle and slap of his boots. She turned on her side and opened one of her sapphire-blue eyes. “What time is it, Vernet?” she asked.

“Too early,” he answered softly. “Go back to sleep.” He was very handsome, even in the dim light of a single candle, freshly shaven and his uniform crisp.

“Four-thirty? Five?” Victoire stretched once, reaching out to brush his hand with her own. Once again she felt her good fortune at securing the affections and the name of this splendid officer, for she was not so wealthy or so beautiful that she could have secured a husband with the crooking of her finger. Her fortune was modest, her fair beauty unfashionable, and her advanced education was seen as a disadvantage by many. The young wife was glad of her decision to take the chance of booking sail on a merchant ship to Athens and then Alexandria in order to be with him.

“Four-thirty.” He bent down and kissed her forehead. His gentle, firm touch thrilled her and she wished he didn’t have to go on duty so soon.

“I’m to meet the seamen. We’re getting more supplies off the ships, thank goodness. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“It’s all right,” she said, her yawn turning to a sigh. “I want to rise while it’s still cool.” She stretched her arms, wishing she had more wool fat to rub on them. Between the sand and the heat her fair skin was dry and fragile as paper, and her pale hair had faded to nearly white.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so. We will have breakfast together,” her husband warned affectionately as he lifted the tent flap and left. “Be careful, little wife.”

“You as well, Vernet,” she said, beginning the routine of rising.

* * *

Dawn came suddenly to Egypt; one moment there was a molten lining to the light lying along the eastern horizon, and then the sun was up, volcanic. Almost at once the wind became a furnace blast.

Lucien Vernet was early to the treasure tent. He had waited for more than half an hour to receive the supplies, but finally had been signalled that British ships were in sight. The landing was postponed. Murat’s dire prediction still troubled him. The general’s temper was something to be feared and he took inordinate pride in the loot gathered there. Having nothing to do for another half hour, he had gone to inspect the treasure tent in the hope of quelling his apprehensions. Now he stared in disbelief at the guard he had just rolled over, afraid to open his mouth for fear he would vomit. Vernet saw that his hands were covered with the marine’s blood, which was the same color as the gendarme officer’s scarlet cuffs. It bothered him that he couldn’t tell if his cuffs were stained. Standing up, the shocked officer backed a few steps away from the body and shuddered. He reminded himself he was a gendarme and inured to the sight of death.

In the first, long shadows of morning, this same marine private that had been guarding the tent during the day before now lay on his side in the cover of the treasure tent, his arms tightly bound, his uniform torn open, his shoulders and face horribly bruised; his throat had been so viciously slashed that the white of his spine showed in the wound. The detective in Vernet noted that the sword or knife must have been incredibly sharp. The man’s musket was leaning against the tent, still charged as ordered. A leather cup, any water it once held long absorbed by the dry ground, lay on its side near the musket. A few dark spots almost a pace away from where the body lay indicated to Vernet’s trained eye that the guard had been standing when the blade had cut his throat. The rough ground was too filled with footprints to give any clues.

A soft and distant sound of crockery being stacked brought Vernet back to himself. He took a long, uneven breath and then shouted loudly. “Captain of the guard! Soldiers! Guard!” Then he stood beside the corpse, waiting for others to come. Carefully he washed his hands in the sand and straightened his uniform. Vernet was frightened and dared not show it.

The camp commander’s tent was the closest, and so General Desaix was the first to arrive, his dark hair disordered, his tunic unfastened. “What do you mean, shouting like—” He stopped as he saw the figure on the sand. “God have mercy,” the commander whispered nervously, and surprisingly, crossed himself. The church and its forms were normally considered antirevolutionary by the Directoire.

He went down on one knee to check the dead man.

“Yes. Liberty and Equality! Yes, he’s dead; they killed him, you can see,” said Vernet, and forced himself to stop babbling. “I ... I have just now found him.” He made himself lean down to feel the forehead of the dead man. “He isn’t completely cold.”

“Not dead very long, then,” said Desaix, straightening up.

“Probably not,” Vernet agreed, swallowing hard to end the tightness in his throat. He had steeled himself against the sight of men wounded and killed in battle, but this one marine, trussed up like an Easter goose, struck him to the core. Professionally he tested the body’s limbs for the hardening that followed death in such a predictable pattern. “Two hours, no more, since he was killed,” the gendarme officer concluded aloud.

Desaix examined the body as half a dozen more men in various states of undress arrived. “Two hours, with so much blood gone.” He dusted his hands against his thighs. He looked toward the treasure tent. “What is missing?”

“I ...” Vernet felt a sudden rush of guilt, “I haven’t looked yet.” It was a confession, and said quietly.

Desaix gave Vernet a quick, hard glance. “And you raised the alarm?”

Before Vernet could answer, Berthier himself arrived, his clothes in disarray and his sword and scabbard in his hand. “What is the meaning of this? Futter the saints, there had better be a good reason—”

“The meaning of what?” asked Desaix, his face showing disapproval for the obscenity Berthier used. “Have more respect for the dead.” He moved so that Berthier could have a clear view of the marine private.

“Jesus and Mary!” Berthier gasped, and earned himself another look of distaste from Desaix. “How did this happen? When?” He stared suddenly at the treasure tent and the booty under the tarpaulin inside. “The general’s treasure. Is anything missing?”

“Who knows?” said Desaix. “No one’s looked yet, according to Vernet.” He motioned more of the soldiers who came running up to keep back, then addressed Vernet once more. “You said you hadn’t looked, didn’t you?”

In spite of the beginning heat of the day, Vernet went cold. “Yes,” he said, and was astonished at how calm he sounded. “I thought my first duty was to alert the camp.” In the growing light all three men could see a slash in the fabric of the tent. It was at the exact spot Vernet had lifted to show the scepter the evening before. The marine officer had arrived, and barely paid attention to his lost comrade. He strode over to the slash and raised the flap it created. As suspected, the scepter was missing.

Berthier’s eyes narrowed and he looked more dyspeptic than ever as he gazed once more at the corpse at their feet. “And when d-did you ... f-find him?” The general’s aide’s slight hesitation in speech warned Vernet just how upset the man was.

“Possibly three, four minutes ago,” said Vernet, not at all certain he ought to answer so readily. “I’d been out to sign for the supplies, but after a while we had a signal saying that there are too many British ships about to put out boats. They’ll land them later, when it’s safe again.”

Berthier turned and stood as Joachim Murat strode up; he had been riding with the perimeter patrol for two hours and was brushing sand off his uniform. “What news?” he asked, not seeing the body.

Murat swung one hand in the air to catch nothing. “I don’t know why we bother with these night patrols. The whole world’s dark as the River Styx. We wear out the horses to no purpose.” He saw the dead marine private. “What the Devil—”

“You have the right of it there,” said Desaix. “This is truly the Devil’s work.” He indicated the body. “What are we to do?”

“Don’t tell Napoleon,” said Murat promptly, taking in the sodden corpse and slashed tent. “Not yet.” He bent over the dead man. “It’s not easy to cut a throat.” He tried to get his fingers under the ropes, but there was no slack in them and the knots held. “Whoever did this ...”

“Whoever did it, they did it not so very long ago,” said Vernet in a steady voice. “He isn’t fully cold or stiff.”

“No, he isn’t,” said Murat after testing the marine’s cheek and bound arms. “An hour, then. Two at most.”

“An Egyptian, do you think?” suggested Desaix.

“Not necessarily,” Murat declared. “We’ve been watching for Egyptians on patrol. We didn’t encounter any large, strong men; the killer would have to be large to overpower this man, and strong to make those knots. Also, the guard raised no alarm. He may have thought he recognized whomever approached, unless he was sneaked up upon. It is easy to do that to
one
man. There are English spies. And some of our own soldiers might not ...” His palm smacked into his dusty tunic. “No. I make no accusations.”

“But what do you suspect?” asked Berthier, then made a motion for silence. “Not now. Too many will overhear us. We must reach a ... certain understanding.” He pointed to the tent. “I want a complete inventory made at once. If anything else is missing, if it is only a button or a leather cup, I want to know about it.”

“I’ll attend to it,” Vernet offered, eager to do something to expiate his failure.

“No,” Berthier said, with so much feeling that Vernet was shocked. “Let someone else ... d-do that.” He turned on his heel and signalled to one of his aides-de-camp. “I want you to arrange for the inventory. Use only men on my staff, and have three present at all times.” He rounded on Vernet. “You will report to my quarters at once. You’re to be available on call until I am able to determine what happened here.” He shook his frizzy head emphatically and nibbled on his left thumbnail. “Someone bring a knife, and cut those ropes off him. And cover him decently. It isn’t fitting for a Republican marine to lie there trussed up like a pig going to market.”

“Not here in Egypt,” said Murat. “They don’t eat pigs here. It offends their sensibilities.” He gave a wolfish smile to Vernet and a solemn glance at Berthier. “The best of luck, Inspector. I fear you are going to need it.”

Vernet had no idea how to respond. He chose the safest course and saluted.

* * *

Berthier read the inventory over, as if on rereading he would find the scepter listed with the other plunder. It had been a very long and frustrating day and his soul felt worn. One thing held his thoughts, one thing that he could not accept and could not deny—the flail scepter, that ancient symbol of pharaonic power and the rulership of the kingdom of the Nile that his master had promised to send to Paris, was gone.

“Eugene,” he called in a voice so rough he did not recognize it as his own, “bring your writing supplies and come here.”

His secretary, a gawky stick of a man who looked out of place in his uniform, came through the tent flap, a portable desk slung around his neck by a wide leather strap. The man’s uniform was meant to be that of a member of the general’s staff. Actually the young man had forgotten to pin half the gold and white epaulets and only one white cuff was in place. This was typical of the corporal. Eugene Caronne had come over as the assistant to one of the savants who had accompanied the army. He had been ill when they landed, and left behind. When Berthier had learned of the man’s clean handwriting and ability to copy maps accurately, he had quickly drafted him onto his own staff. He was probably the first man ever to be drafted into the armies of the Republic in Egypt, a distinction it was unlikely the former professor’s assistant took any pleasure in. The scribe bowed slightly and took his seat on a leather-covered camp stool; he opened the portable desk and drew out pens and a standish of ink. Satisfied that the nib was properly trimmed, he selected two sheets of paper, closed the desk, and prepared to write.

“I want you to make a copy of this inventory,” said Berthier, handing the paper to Eugene. “Then be so good as to speak with Madame Vernet; I want to call upon her at her earliest convenience.” He placed his broad hands together, fingers fanned out. “I must get to the bottom of this at once, Eugene. I have my duty.”

“Yes, sir,” said Eugene, his attention on copying the inventory of loot. “Pardon me, sir, but what’s this word, if you will?” He pointed to one line that had been smeared when the list was sanded.

“Tooled leather,” Berthier said after peering at it. “Two tooled leather saddles, made in the Egyptian design with gems embedded. They took them off one of the Mameluke commanders after the battle. One was scarred by canister.”