The Rosetta Key (44 page)

“Napoleon!” Astiza pleaded.

“You will not miss him, madame. I am going to shoot you too. And your jailer, if I can find him.”

“I think he’s looking for treasure in the crypts of Notre Dame,” I said. “Don’t blame him. He’s a simple man with imagination, the only jailer I ever liked.”

“That idiot lost Sidney Smith from Temple Prison too,” Napoleon grumbled. “Whom I then had to face at Acre.”

“Yes, General. But his tales encouraged all of us to keep looking for your book.”

“Then I’ll shoot you twice, to make up for him.”

We were marched outside. Wisps of smoke were rising into a predawn gray sky. Once more I was much the worse for wear — exhausted, slashed by a rapier, scraped raw to make friction, and sleepless. If I truly have the devil’s luck, I pity the devil.

Bonaparte stood us up against a decorative wall, the season having taken most of the flowers. It is there in an ominous November dawn that my story should end: Napoleon master, the book gone, my love doomed. We were too exhausted to even beg. Muskets were raised and hammers drawn back.

Here we go again, I thought.

And then came a sharp command. “Wait.”

I’d closed my eyes — I’d had quite enough of staring down musket barrels at Jaffa — and heard the crunch of boots on pea gravel as Napoleon came over. What now? I opened them warily.

“You’re telling the truth about the book, aren’t you Gage?”

“It’s gone, General. I mean, First Consul. Burned.”

“It did work, you know. Parts of it. You can put men under a spell and get them to agree to extraordinary things. It’s a criminal waste what you’ve done, American.”

“No man should be able to enchant another.”

“I despise you, Gage, but I’m impressed by you as well. You’re a survivor, like me. An opportunist, like me. And even an intellectual like me, in your own odd way. I don’t need magic when I have the state. So what would you do if I let you go?”

“Let me go? You’ll excuse that I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”

“My position has changed. I
am
France. I can’t indulge in petty revenge, I must think for millions. There will be an election next year in your United States, and I need help improving relations. You’re aware our two nations have been dueling at sea?”

“Most unfortunate.”

“Gage, I need an envoy in the Americas who can think on his feet. France has interests in the Caribbean and Louisiana, and we’ve not given up hope of recovering Canada. There are strange reports of artifacts in the west that might interest a frontiersman like you. Our nations can be enemies, or we can help each other as we did during your revolution. You know me as well as anyone. I want you to go to your new capital, the one they call Washington, or Columbia, and explore some ideas for me.”

I looked beyond him at the line of executioners. “An envoy?”

“Like Franklin, explaining each nation to the other.”

The soldiers grounded their arms. “Delighted, I’m sure.” I coughed.

“We’ll waive the charge of murder against you and overlook this fiasco with Silano. Fascinating man, but I never trusted him. Never.”

That’s not what I remembered, but there was a limit to argument with Napoleon. I felt life returning to my extremities. “And?” I nodded toward Astiza.

“Yes, yes, you’re as bewitched by her as I am with Josephine. Any man can see that, and God pity us both! Go with Astiza, see what you can learn, and remember — you owe me two hundred livres!”

I smiled as affably as possible. “If I can get my rifle back.”

“Done. But we’ll confiscate your ammunition, I think, until I’m well out of range.” As they handed back my empty long rifle, he turned and contemplated the palace. “My government will begin in the Luxembourg, of course. But I’ve a mind this could be my home. Your fire is an excuse to start remodeling: This very morning!”

“How fortunate I could be of assistance.”

“You realize that it’s because your character is so empty that it’s not worth the bullets to kill you?”

“I couldn’t agree more.”

“And that France and America share the same interests against perfidious Britain?”

“England does have a way of being overbearing at times.”

“I don’t trust you either, Gage. You’re a rascal. But work with me and maybe something will come of it. You’ve yet to make your fortune, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that, First Consul. After nearly two years of adventure, I don’t have a penny to my name.”

“I can be generous to friends. So. My aides will find you a hotel, well away from that horrid landlady of yours. What a Medusa! I’ll start you on a small allowance and count on you not to risk it at cards. We’ll dock some until I get my livres back, of course.”

I sighed. “Of course.”

“And you, lady?” he addressed Astiza. “Are you ready to see America?”

She’d looked troubled as we talked. Now, she hesitated and then slowly, sadly, shook her head. “No, Consul.”

“No?”

“I’ve been searching my heart these long dark days, and I’ve realized I belong in Egypt as much as Ethan does not. Your country is beautiful but cold, and its forest shadows the soul. The American wilderness would be worse. This isn’t my place. Nor do I think we’ve found the last trace of Thoth or the Templars. Send Ethan on your mission, but understand why I must return to Cairo and your institute of savants.”

“Madame, I cannot guarantee your safety in Egypt. I don’t know if I’ll be able to rescue my army.”

“Isis has a role for me, and it’s not across the ocean.” She turned.

“I’m sorry, Ethan. I love you, as you’ve loved me. But my quest is not entirely over. The time hasn’t come for us to settle down together. It will, perhaps. It will.”

By the swamps of Georgia, could I never succeed with women? I go through Dante’s inferno, finally dispose of her former lover, get a respectable job from the new government of France — and now she wants to leave? It was insane!

Or was it? I was in no mood to nest just yet, and really had no idea where this next adventure might take me. Nor was Astiza the type of woman to trail docilely in my wake. I, too, was intrigued to learn more about ancient Egypt, so maybe she could start that path while I ran Bonaparte’s errands in America. A few diplomatic dinners, a quick look at a sugar isle or two, and I’d be free of the man and ready to plan our future.

“Won’t you miss me?” I risked.

She smiled sadly. “Oh, yes. Life is sorrow. But life is also destiny, Ethan, and this stay of execution is a sign that the next door must be opened, the next path taken.”

“How do I know we’ll see each other again?”

She smiled sadly, regretfully, and yet sweetly, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she whispered. “Bet on it, Ethan Gage. Play the cards.”

I
f we learn more from our mistakes than our successes, then Napoleon’s 1799 campaign in the Holy Land was education in the extreme. His attacks were impatient and ill-prepared at Acre. He alienated most of the indigenous population. The massacre and subsequent execution of prisoners at Jaffa were to plague his reputation the rest of his life. Scarcely better were reports that he was guilty of mercy-killing his own troops by distributing opium and poison to dying plague victims. He would not experience such an embarrassing military and political setback until his invasion of Russia in 1812.

And yet, by the close of 1799, Bonaparte had not just survived a military debacle; the Corsican had so adroitly manipulated public opinion back in France that he found himself first consul of his adopted nation, on his way to becoming emperor. Modern politicians who seem coated with Teflon (meaning that nothing critical sticks to them) cannot compare to the slickness of Napoleon Bonaparte. How could he achieve such turnaround from such disaster? That’s the mischievous mystery at the center of this book.

For fiction readers curious about such things, much of this novel is true. The tragedy of Jaffa, the Battle of Mount Tabor, and the siege of Acre went much as described, although I have taken liberties with details. Ethan Gage and his electrified chain are an invention, and so is Napoleon’s battering-ram torpedo. But Sir Sidney Smith, Phelipeaux, Haim Farhi, and Djezzar were real. (In reality, Phelipeaux died of exhaustion or sunstroke in the siege, not bayonets.) Acre and Jaffa — the latter now a suburb of Tel Aviv — retain some of the architectural flavor of 1799, and it’s not hard to imagine Gage’s sojourn in the Holy Land. While the strategic tower and walls of the siege of Acre are gone — they were replaced after the battle with new ones by Djezzar because of the extensive damage — there’s abundant romance in walking the ramparts of this lovely Mediterranean town. To the east, a highway to Galilee cuts by the foot of the hill where Napoleon had his headquarters.

For readers interested in the history of Bonaparte’s Syrian campaign, I recommend
Napoleon in the Holy Land
by Nathan Schur and
Bonaparte in Egypt
by J. Christopher Herold. Evocative documentary watercolors made by the English artist David Roberts in 1839 are collected in a number of art books.

While I’ve imagined some of my subterranean vaults under Jerusalem’s Temple Mount — a necessity since even long-visited chambers such as Solomon’s Stables have been closed to visitors by Muslim authorities — Jerusalem is riddled with caves and tunnels. They include a dark, thigh-deep subterranean waterway from the lower Pool of Siloam that this author dutifully waded through to get a feel for the underground adventure I describe. Underground gates to long-secret tunnels under the Temple Mount exist: You can see at least one as a tourist. The Temple Mount is kept off-limits to archeologists because of fear that discovery could ignite religious strife. Explorers have been chased off by angry mobs in the past, but doesn’t that lend credence to the idea that there might still be revelations there? Just don’t show up with a shovel. You might ignite a holy war.

Some readers will recognize that the “City of Ghosts” is in fact the breathtaking Jordanian ruin of Petra, built by the Nabataean Arabs shortly before Christ and ultimately administered by the Romans. At the time Gage visits, it was indeed a lost city that would stun the first nineteenth-century Europeans to see it. While I’ve taken some obvious liberties, much is as I’ve described it. There is a High Place of Sacrifice.

The Tuileries Palace in Paris was begun in 1564 and burned down in 1871. It served as the palace of Napoleon and Josephine beginning in February of 1800, three months after he seized power. Temple Prison was also real, but has since been demolished. And yes, Notre Dame is built on the site of a Roman temple to Isis.

The lore of the Knights Templar, kabbalah symbolism, and the idea of a Book of Thoth are all real. More on Thoth can be found in the prequel to this novel,
Napoleon’s Pyramids.
My suggestion that Thoth’s book was found by the Templars is made up — but then what
was
the source of their astonishingly quick and overwhelming rise to power after they excavated under the Temple Mount? Just what did they find? Where
is
the biblical Ark of the Covenant? What secrets
did
ancient societies acquire? There is always more mystery.

I should wryly note that it may come as a surprise to the British Museum that the Rosetta Stone, proudly displayed after British troops confiscated it from the French in 1801, is in fact missing its topmost and most important piece. After reading this novel, the curators may want to put a small index card on the stone’s glass case apologizing for the omission and assuring that strenuous efforts are being made to find the fragments blown to pieces by a renegade American in Rosetta in 1799. But that is only a suggestion — as is the idea that archeologists keep an eye out for the remaining 36,534 Books of Thoth.

If, that is, they are worthy.

T
his author relied on the careful scholarship of a host of historians to craft this tale, plus the evocative archaeological preservation work that makes Israel and Jordan such rewarding places to visit. I thank in particular guides Paule Rakower and Professor Dan Bahat in Israel, and Mohammed Helalat in Jordan. Diane Johnson of Western Washington University provided the Templar Latin epigram, and Nancy Pearl brought to my attention the anecdote of Napoleon ripping out the pages of novels and passing them on to his officers. At HarperCollins, special thanks to my editor, Rakesh Satyal, copyeditor Martha Cameron, production editor David Koral, editorial assistant Rob Crawford, publicist Heather Drucker for her hard work getting the word out, and the many others who make publication of a book possible. Kudos of course to Andrew Stuart, the agent who keeps me in business. And, as always, thanks to my first reader, Holly.

WILLIAM DIETRICH
is the author of
Napoleon’s Pyramids, Scourge of God
, and
Hadrian’s Wall
. A Pulitzer Prize–winning journalist, historian, and naturalist, he is a staff writer at the
Seattle Times
and a professor at Western Washington University. He lives in Washington State.

Fiction

Napoleon’s Pyramids

The Scourge of God

Hadrian’s Wall

Dark Winter

Getting Back

Ice Reich

Nonfiction

On Puget Sound

Natural Grace

Northwest Passage

The Final Forest

Map by Nick Springer, Springer Cartographics LLC