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Transferring the reins to his bandaged right hand, Elfi spurred the horse into a gallop, snatched the woman up with his good arm and carried her that way for a few yards before slowing his horse to a trot and setting her down.
She stood blinking up at him and shuddering as the fear released her from its grip. He could see that she was young, about fifteen, and lithe in the way of desert women.
‘What are you, a Jinniya? What are you doing out here alone? Where are your people?’ His voice rasped hoarse with thirst. Yet, thirsty as he was, he knew the wisest thing to do would be to head in the opposite direction rather than risk an unpredictable encounter with the Bedouin. Her people were more likely to kill him for his horse than offer him water for saving their daughter. He turned his horse’s head and spurred its flanks, then, changing his mind, wheeled around and came to a halt before her. In his life, Elfi thought, he had regretted acts of mercy more than those of cruelty, and he might yet live to regret saving this girl from the terrible death of thirst in the desert.
‘Are you lost? You’d better answer, my girl, for I’d just as soon leave you here to die on your own. What tribe are you? Abbadi? Muwaylih?’
The girl hesitated, then pointed east beyond the dunes.
‘All right then, come on.’ He winced as he transferred the reins to his throbbing right hand, and held out his good hand to her. She hesitated, then reached up, grasped his hand and leaped, barely tapping his foot with hers as he hoisted her into the saddle behind him. Her body settled warm and pliant against his back and he twisted round to look at her. Whatever she thought she read in his eyes made her pupils dilate as they had when she had stared at the snake. Elfi quickly clamped both her hands in a vice with his left hand; Bedouin women were taught to carry daggers, and to use them, as soon as they reached puberty. ‘I won’t hurt you. I’m thirsty enough to cut your throat just to drink your blood, but I won’t rape you.’
With his free hand he fumbled at her waist and found the dagger in her wide belt of embroidered cloth, and took it and tucked it into his sash. Then he pointed the horse towards the dunes. Another night spent under the stars, he thought; would he see the day when he could lie under the roof of his Ezbekiah palace?
THREE (#u16c9575d-80d4-597e-9aaa-72357a3365ed)
The Savants of the Nasiriya (#u16c9575d-80d4-597e-9aaa-72357a3365ed)
‘Cairo is an immense city. The Saint-Honoré quarter is at one end, the faubourg Saint-Victor is at the opposite end. But in this faubourg there are four Beys’ palaces side by side, and four immense gardens. This is the location we were assigned. All the French, as you can imagine, live near the General in the Saint-Honoré quarter, but they are obliged to come visit us to take part in our promenades and our delights. That is where the real Champs Élysées are!’
Geoffroy St-Hilaire, Lettres écrites d’Égypte par Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire
Zeinab stood on the terrace of her father’s house and looked across the Ezbekiah Lake – still dry in this season – at Elfi Bey’s palace on the opposite shore, looming behind its high walls. The French had crossed to the Cairo side of the Nile on Tuesday and their chief general, whom they called Bonaparte, had taken up residence in Elfi’s palace, all newly furnished as it was. Her tutor Shaykh Jabarti had remarked grimly, ‘Just as if the amir had had it built expressly for the commander of the French. Let that be a lesson for you, Zeinab,’ he added. ‘Men of understanding should not waste their efforts on the perishable things of this world.’
Jabarti and her father, Shaykh Bakri, along with the chief ulema and other city leaders, were at that very moment at Elfi Bey’s palace responding to a summons from the French commandant. Zeinab had watched her father set off in the morning, wearing his grandest turban and his best kaftan. Now she peered through the lattice of the mashrabiyya window overlooking the street side of the house, ostensibly on the lookout for her father’s return, but secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of a Frenchman; her curiosity about the Franj was insatiable.
Dada, her wet-nurse, told her that the French walked about the markets without arms and without aggression, smiling at people and offering to buy what they needed at the prices they were used to paying in their own country: one would offer to buy a chicken for a French riyal, another an egg for a silver half-penny, and in that manner they were winning the confidence of the populace.
‘The shopkeepers go out to them with stuffed pancakes, roast chicken, fried fish and the like,’ Dada reported. ‘The markets and the coffee houses have all reopened. Some dishonest bakers have even started to cheat by mixing chaff into the flour for their bread. And the Greeks have begun opening up taverns wherever the French have moved in. The Franj have taken over the houses of the amirs, not only here in the Ezbekiah but also in the Elephant Lake district, where they have seized Ibrahim Bey’s house. Today Consul Magallon took up residence in one of Murad Bey’s houses – and to think he and his wife used to be such friends of Sitt Nafisa! And if it were only the Franj! Even Bartholomew Fart Rumman has helped himself to Ismail Kashif ’s house, and what is a hundred times worse, to his wife as well. Poor Sitt Hawa! God only knows what will happen to her if Ismail Kashif ever returns.’ The wet-nurse finished braiding Zeinab’s long black tresses and rubbed a drop of almond oil between her palms to smooth the fly-away strands.
‘Dada, what manner of men are they? Are they reported to be very beautiful?’
‘Just listen to the child! Some are, some aren’t, like the sons of Adam everywhere. They shave both their beard and moustache; some leave hair on their cheeks. The barber tells me they do not shave their head or pubic hair. They have no modesty about their bodies. They mix their food and drinks. They never take their shoes off and tread with them all over precious carpets and wipe their feet on them. But you will see them soon enough, Sitt Zeinab; more and more of them are entering the city every day.’
The clanking of the gate alerted Zeinab to her father’s return and she ran to greet him in the inner courtyard. On the way she snatched the washcloth a servant was dipping in rose-water and proffered it herself to her father to wipe his face and hands. She stood by, shifting from foot to foot in her impatience, while her father took his time to sit on the wooden bench in the shade of a eucalyptus, remove his shoes, cross his legs under him, turn back the voluminous sleeves of his kaftan and perform his ablutions with the perfumed washcloth. Zeinab’s mother made her appearance, a little breathless with hurrying; she was a plump woman and easily winded.
‘Well, Shaykh Khalil?’ She offered her husband a cup of carob juice and took a seat beside him. ‘What news, inshallah? How did the French receive you?’
‘With all proper regards – even if they are a people who come to the point rather more promptly than we would think courteous. After the preliminary compliments conveyed by the translator, their commander in chief addressed us and consulted us concerning the appointment of ten shaykhs to form a diwan, a council that would govern local affairs.’
‘A diwan of clerics! God be praised.’
‘Indeed. It bodes very well that the French seem disposed to recognize our position among the people. Shaykh Sharkawi was chosen to head the diwan, as the most prominent of the ulema, and after him, I myself was nominated, along with Sadat and Mahruqi, as is proper. Three French commanders were also appointed, including their daftardar who has commandeered my house on the Elephant Lake. But no matter … It was when the affair was concluded that the trouble began.’ He paused to take a sip of juice.
‘What trouble, Father?’ Zeinab blurted.
Her father frowned. ‘Learn to control your curiosity, child, or you will be sent back to your nurse.’ He took a long drink of carob juice. ‘It was when we rose to take our leave that the chief general went to Shaykh Sharkawi and kissed him on both cheeks, then with a flourish draped a blue, red and white shawl around his neck. The shaykh immediately removed it and flung it on the ground. “I will not forfeit this world and the next,” he exclaimed. Bonaparte flushed with rage and remonstrated with him through the interpreter. “The commander in chief intends to exalt you by bestowing his attire and emblem on you. If you are distinguished by wearing it, the French soldiers and the people will honour and respect you.” Sharkawi replied: “But our good standing with God and our fellow Muslims will be lost.”’
Her father clapped his hands for his pipe. ‘This infuriated Bonaparte. I tried to soothe him and asked exemption from this measure, or at least a delay in its implementation. Bonaparte retorted: “At least you must all wear the rosette on your chest.”’
‘What is this thing they call a rosette, Father?’
‘It is an emblem made of three concentric colours of ribbon – the same blue, white and red as their flag and their shawl. As soon as the shaykhs left the council, they each in turn, starting with Shaykh Sadat – how that man loves to grandstand before the common folk! – removed the rosette and flung it on the ground, in front of the assembled crowd outside. I had no choice but to follow suit. Shaykh Jabarti told me privately that he does not himself hold that wearing such an emblem is against Islam, particularly when it is imposed and harm can result from disobedience; but he knows that the people hold it to be sacrilege. It will remain to be seen how this matter is resolved. As the proverb goes: If you wish to be obeyed, command that which is feasible.’
‘Mabruk, Shaykh Khalil, congratulations on your appointment to the diwan.’ Zeinab’s mother signalled to the servant to light the apple-scented tobacco in the small clay cup at the top of the glass hookah. ‘Having the ulema and the French on the same footing in the diwan … it’s more than the Mamlukes ever did for the clerics. When does the council meet for the first time?’
‘Next week. We have our work cut out for us in the first session: we have to appoint officials to replace the Mamlukes and their retainers in all the functions they performed. The one stipulation the French laid down was that no member of the Mamluke caste would be allowed to hold any position, official or otherwise. Jabarti told the French the common folk feared no one but the amirs, so they allowed some descendants of the ancient houses to assume certain posts. Elfi Bey’s khatkhuda, Zulfikar, was appointed to be khatkhuda to Bonaparte. But there is another matter of more immediate concern to me … an opportunity to advance my position with the French …’
‘Really, Shaykh Khalil? God be praised!’ Zeinab’s mother leaned in eagerly.
Shaykh Bakri blew rings of apple-scented smoke in the air. ‘The French commandant also announced that Omar Makram, the Naqib, who fled the city, would be replaced as chief of the syndicate of the House of the Prophet. Naturally, they will be nominating a successor …’
‘Oh! Shaykh Khalil! I see where you are going with this: you yourself are of the lineage of the Prophet. God be praised!’
‘Now don’t get ahead of yourself, wife. But I am indeed one of the most prominent, and head of the Sufi guild of the Bakris besides, so it is not out of the question.’
‘There is no one worthier!’
‘But I have many enemies among the ulema who will no doubt undermine my candidacy. If there were a way to consolidate my position with the French …’ He drew Zeinab towards him and looked at her speculatively. ‘A marriageable daughter, now… perhaps an alliance?’
Zeinab spared no more than a moment’s attention to her father’s musings. She twisted the end of her braid in her fingers, waiting for the opening to ask the questions that really piqued her curiosity: Were the commandants handsome? Were there any French ladies in sight? What did they look like? Was it true they walked about unveiled and bare-bosomed?
Nicolas Conté stopped in his tracks momentarily to listen to a street urchin singing his wares. The boy’s soprano reminded him so much of his son Pierrot’s pure soprano when he still sang in the choir that he was cut to the quick with a pang of longing for his son, for the sweet chant of choir boys, in this city where the only choir he heard was that of the muezzins chanting the call to prayers from dawn to dusk.
The urchin’s cry died away in the Cairo air and in two long strides Conté caught up with his companions in the dusty alley. He was brimming with impatience to discover Cairo, finally. Ambassador Magallon had offered to guide him and St-Hilaire to their new accommodations, the mansion commandeered for the Scientific Commission.
‘The mansion you will be occupying is in the Nasiriya district – the name means victory in Arabic – to the south-west of town,’ Ambassador Magallon was saying. ‘You will be taking the house of Hassan Kashif, and the adjoining beys’ palaces and their gardens. An excellent location, I should say, but for the disadvantage of being so far from the Ezbekiah where the generals have made Elfi Bey’s palace their headquarters.’
‘Ah! One wonders if this is entirely by chance?’ Geoffroy raised an eyebrow. ‘I heard General Bonaparte say once that scientists were much like women for gossip and rivalries and squabbling. A fine opinion our general holds of us!’
But Nicolas was absorbed in the street theatre around him. His senses were disoriented by the assault of the unfamiliar, and his eyes needed an interpreter as much as his ears. His first impression of Cairo was overwhelming. The city seemed immense, sprawling and bewildering, a maze of narrow streets and blind alleys; the houses in general – apart from the palaces and mansions of the amirs and notables – turning blind facades and cold shoulders to the street. Most were one or two storeys high, with the exception of the houses in the market, which were narrow and rose two or three storeys above the shops on the ground floor.
Nicolas had never encountered as cacophonous and mixed a city, a veritable Tower of Babel spoken on the street; the people a mixture of races and religions from all over the Ottoman empire and Europe: Turks, Circassians, Egyptians, Bedouin, Moroccans, Italians, Muslim, Copt, Greek Orthodox, Syrian Catholic, Jewish. The men seemed generally well-made and fine-figured, with skin so tanned by the sun as to resemble leather. Women were rare, and veiled in robes from head to foot.
‘There are several of these large covered markets around the city – wikalas, as they are called,’ Magallon explained. ‘Each specializes in a particular kind of trade: dates, fabric, camels, slaves … and they have done so for centuries. Sitt Nafisa’s wikala at Bab Zuweila, for instance, specializes in coffee and spices, since that is where the caravans from Arabia unload their wares.’
‘Ah! Speaking of Sitt Nafisa, Citoyen,’ Nicolas interjected. ‘I had promised my wife to report to her at the earliest opportunity on the interior of the harem, as she is most curious to know how Muslim ladies entertain chez elles. I understand Madame Magallon was one of this lady’s intimates?’
‘It is not a simple matter to arrange an invitation to the harem,’ Magallon demurred. ‘The Oriental idea of home and privacy is very different to ours.’
‘Indeed! Look around you – the houses and doors we pass remain resolutely closed in our faces,’ Geoffroy St-Hilaire gestured broadly to both sides of the street.
‘Apparently we have been preceded by the reputation of our troops for zeal in making the acquaintance of the fairer sex,’ Nicolas suggested dryly. ‘But our exemplary behaviour here will soon dispel suspicion and open hearts and hearths to us, I am persuaded.’
At that moment a fleeting motion above made him look up and he caught a glimpse, through a crack in the wooden lattice of a small balcony, of a young girl’s enormous dark eyes avid with curiosity in a round, pale face. When her eyes met his she withdrew behind the shutters like a squirrel up a tree. For some reason, Nicolas made no mention of this unique sighting to his companions.
As they headed away from the souk and along another canal, Geoffroy looked around him in despair. ‘But this city is bewildering! I will never learn my way around here!’
‘To get your bearings,’ Magallon suggested, ‘it helps to think of the Nile running on a south to north axis, with the city on the eastern bank, and Giza and the pyramids to the west. One point of reference you can see from anywhere in the city is the Citadel up on the Mokkattam hills.’ He pointed to a vast walled complex built around an ancient fort overlooking the city from the east. ‘The fort dates back to Sultan Yussef Salah al-Din, the Saladdin of the crusades. That is where our garrison is now housed.’
‘These streets are too narrow for a carriage, let alone our heavy cannon,’ Nicolas observed as they headed down another narrow, winding alley.
‘They weren’t designed for them. In fact, in some cases two persons on horseback cannot meet and pass each other without some difficulty. It used to be, when one of inferior rank became aware of a Bey or powerful figure approaching, he was obliged, out of respect and regard for his personal safety both, to take shelter in some cross lane or doorway, till the other with his numerous attendants had passed. Before our invasion, no Christian or European traveller was permitted, except by special favour, to mount horses in Cairo – only asses.’
With his military engineer’s eye, Nicolas could not help noticing other impediments to the proper circulation of troops: within the city walls, each quarter, indeed each lane and alley, seemed to have fortified gates at the entrance that were locked at night – Magallon estimated their number at seventy. Decorative as some of these gates were, their presence, along with the absence of streetlights, would hinder the circulation of French troops after nightfall, and would complicate quelling any uprising by the citizenry, should one occur. For the moment, though, the glances in their direction seemed more curious than hostile.
In another half-hour they reached the Nasiriya. ‘Aha! The Faubourg Saint-Victor! Finally!’ Geoffroy exulted. Magallon led them into a spacious mansion.
‘This is the palace of Hassan Kashif. I present to you the new location of the Institute of Egypt!’
Nicolas and Geoffroy looked around the mansion with its high ceilings, its graceful colonnaded arches and its intricate decorative woodwork. Geoffroy declared it superior to the finest academic institution in France.
‘The main salon will serve as your assembly hall –’ Magallon gestured around the arcaded hall. ‘I must tell you that it served quite a different purpose originally, as the salon for the ladies of the harem.’
‘A titillating detail that, alas, will not suffice to lend piquancy to the predictably tedious deliberations of our august commission!’ Geoffroy lamented.
Nicolas was more interested in the house next door, also formerly owned by said Hassan Kashif, that was allocated to him for his balloonist brigade and their workshops. Here he would recreate the École nationale aérostatique de Meudon! His heart rose in his chest with the thrill of anticipation. He and his confreres would form a true elysium of savants here in the Nasiriya. The secretary of the Institute, Fourier, was lodged in the house of Sennari, Murad Bey’s Sudanese Mamluke. Nearby would be the naturalists St-Hilaire and Savigny, the architects Balzac and Lepère; the geographers, the pharmacists, the mineralogists; and the painters Rigo and Redouté. Nicolas had already designated the perfect spot for their informal gathering place of an evening: the large garden of an adjoining house, that of Qassim Bey, with its gigantic sycamore tree and fragrant acacias.
His reverie was interrupted by the appearance of Dr Desgenettes.
‘Ah, Docteur, welcome! Have you been to inspect the quarters you were allocated for the hospital?’
‘I have indeed, on the Elephant Lake. I am also to set up another hospital in the Citadel. We have just been touring the premises with General Bonaparte. You will never guess what our general is writing urgently to request from the Directoire.’
‘What could that be?’
‘Prostitutes.’
‘Did you say prostitutes?’
‘Precisely. Bonaparte is writing urgently to Paris to request that the Directoire ship out at least a hundred prostitutes on the next available ship. The shortage of women is beginning to pose a serious problem to the health and morale of our troops. After all, with thousands of Frenchmen here, and only a couple of hundred women – and those not even filles publiques but wives – where are our men to seek le repos du guerrier? And in this one crucial instance we cannot hope to live on the land, as the general has warned most sternly against offending local sensibilities, and Muslims are most punctilious in these matters.’
‘Surely there must be local filles de joie?’
‘Few, and those are joyless indeed, with figures flabby from childbearing. And as for hygiene …’ He shrugged. ‘No, it is a serious problem, and Bonaparte has written to the Directoire demanding a hundred prostitutes immediately; we shall see what comes of it.’
Through the open window a chant rose like a plume of smoke, and was echoed from first one, then a dozen minarets around the city, till the sultry sunset air swelled with the chants of the muezzins and the twittering of the birds going to roost in the trees. Nicolas stood before the window, enchanted by the purity and light of the achingly graceful minarets soaring into the hazy mauve sky.
‘Ah, Docteur, if monuments are windows into the soul of a civilization, then these Mamlukes, whatever they are today, must once have been a race that valued beauty and balance above all.’
Zeinab stared out of the mashrabiyya window at two French soldiers in the street below, fascinated by the long, floppy brown hair that hung to their shoulders and the skin-tight white breeches that moulded their legs and outlined their crotches and loins; she had never seen men walking about looking naked before. But what the soldiers were doing worried her. They were tearing down and breaking up the great wood and leather gates that protected the neighbourhood at night, and loading the dismantled doors on carts.
‘My teacher, is it true what Dada says? That the reason the French are tearing down the gates to the neighbourhoods all around the city is so they can murder us all while the men are at Friday prayers?’
‘Your wet-nurse repeats whatever rumours she picks up in the marketplace. No, the French are tearing down the gates so that their carriages and troops can enter the neighbourhoods unhindered in case of an uprising against them. They decree that the streets are not wide enough for the passage of their troops and particularly for their general’s carriage – which requires six horses to draw it – so they intend to demolish anything that extrudes into the street in front of the houses, including the small steps and benches that shopkeepers sit on.’
‘Even the earthenware jars for thirsty passers-by?’
‘Even those must go, no matter what hospitality dictates.’ Shaykh Jabarti shook his head. ‘They do not understand our ways. They tear down the gates, and then they force each householder to keep a lantern lit before his door all night, and fine him if it goes out or if some lout deliberately extinguishes it, as if people had nothing better to do than stay awake all night making sure that their lamps do not go out. Nothing will come of this but ill-feeling.’
It was true, thought Zeinab, a sullen silence reigned in the city. The shops closed early, people kept to their homes. Festivities went uncelebrated, by tacit consent. The heads of the guilds, who would normally be vying at this time to put on the showiest parade for the upcoming festival of the Nile flood – particularly as it coincided this year with the birthday of the Prophet – would have nothing to do with it, in protest at the occupation. And the French would be none the wiser.
FOUR (#u16c9575d-80d4-597e-9aaa-72357a3365ed)
Aboukir (#u16c9575d-80d4-597e-9aaa-72357a3365ed)
‘The enemy is before you and the sea is behind you. You will fight or die. There is no retreat.’
Tariq bin Ziyad, Moorish Conqueror of Spain.
Nicolas Conté looked up from his code book and blinked at the brilliant sky above him. From the ramparts of the white medieval Mamluke fort the bay of Alexandria stretched out before him, reverberating in the blue glare. The sun had begun to set, streaking the sky glorious mauve and orange, and a sweet breeze blew across the bay. Nicolas was glad his mission – to build the optical telegraph that was to relay messages between the city and the fleet – had brought him to the seashore, away from the stifling heat of Cairo in August. His engineers were supervising the building of the wooden rods, painted black, to be mounted as the arms of the semaphore, and training operators to set them at the proper angles to represent 196 symbols. Nicolas himself was concentrating on combining symbols to yield words and phrases; he had already devised two thousand out of a possible eight thousand plus – when a watchman cried the alarm and he looked out to sea. With the sun low in the sky, they saw a fleet of ships over the horizon, black sails deployed to the fullest, and to a man they leapt to their feet, hoping against hope that it was reinforcements from Spain.
But it was Nelson; this time he would not miss the French fleet trapped in Aboukir Bay to the east of the city. A cry of frustration escaped Nicolas: the semaphore would at least have allowed him to warn Admiral Brueys and the other captains on the ships, but the system was not yet up and running. As Nicolas watched in helpless agony from the top of the fort, and the entire city and garrison watched from rooftops and terraces, the English fleet opened fire with fourteen hundred cannons at once. The blare was indescribable, the superiority of English firepower stunning. As the sun set, the flagship of the French fleet, L’Orient, exploded when its gunpowder magazines caught fire. Nicolas knew the terrible sight would be seared in his brain for as long as he lived.
As nightfall turned the bay into a lake of fire, the guns fell mercifully silent. But there was no time to waste; he knew he had to prepare for the eventuality of an attack on the city itself. He set his engineers to work outfitting ovens with reflectors to heat cannonballs and improvising a floating fire pump. All night they laboured at their hellish tasks, dripping sweat, until with the dawn the English resumed firing, to complete the devastation they had started the night before. The pitiable sights that daylight disclosed were unspeakable: the thousands of dead, drowned or burned alive.
Finally the English ships withdrew. The city had been spared; apparently Nelson had decided that the Army of the Orient was no threat to him at the moment, trapped as it was in Egypt.
Two weeks later Nicolas stood in the great hall of Elfi’s palace in Cairo listening to the commandant addressing the assembled commanders. Bonaparte had just returned from a skirmish with Ibrahim Bey in Gaza, and learned the terrible news of Aboukir for the first time. He took the blow with a sang-froid that impressed Nicolas.
‘We are called upon to do great things, and we shall do them,’ Bonaparte reiterated simply at the conclusion of his speech. ‘Destiny has called upon us to build an empire, and we shall build it.’
As Nicolas turned to leave, Bonaparte called out to him. ‘Citoyen Conté! A moment. Come, take a turn with me in the garden.’
As they strolled in the welcome shade of the gazebo, Bonaparte laid a hand on Nicolas’ shoulder. ‘I need you for a matter of considerable urgency and some delicacy.’
‘At your service, Commandant.’
‘How soon can you put on a balloon demonstration?’
Nicolas could not hide his astonishment.
‘We must impress the populace,’ Bonaparte explained. ‘We must put on a very grand show, something to take their breath away, to inspire them with admiration and dread in equal measure, and impress on them indelibly the superiority of French military science. We must try to keep the sinking of the fleet a secret from Cairo for as long as possible, but we cannot hope to do so indefinitely, and when the news comes out we must have something spectacular to divert attention. I feel the mood in the city turning sullen and dangerous, and we must reverse that. Besides, a grand celebration will combat despondency in our own troops; we must guard against that, I have seen disquieting signs of it from the beginning of this campaign. So, I am counting on you and your balloonists! It is a very important mission I am confiding in you. How soon can you be ready?’
‘We have not yet unpacked our matériel, or ascertained its condition; some of it has been lost or destroyed. Our priority has been to complete the semaphore and extend it from Alexandria to our garrisons in the Delta – and eventually to Cairo. Surely that should be the first order of business? The news of Aboukir took two weeks to reach you, Commandant, because couriers sent overland are routinely assassinated.’
‘I know, my dear Conté,’ Bonaparte insisted, clapping Nicolas on the shoulder. ‘But make the balloon your first priority nonetheless. Believe me, it is more important. One hundred days – remember, a campaign is won or lost in the first hundred days. And we must win these people’s hearts and spirits. Now that we have lost the fleet, this is one battle we cannot afford to lose. You understand me? How soon can you set up a demonstration?’
‘I cannot guarantee success for several weeks – even months. My equipment for producing hydrogen has been lost with the sinking of the fleet, and the alternative – to try to fly a Montgolfière – is far less reliable. I would be very reluctant to essay a hot-air balloon publicly.’
‘No matter, fly a Montgolfière then, my dear Conté; it will do very well to impress the Cairenes and raise the morale of our troops. Much is riding on this. I will have it announced for the Prophet’s birthday, whenever that is. I have heard, through my spies, that it is normally a very festive occasion, but the citizens of Cairo are not celebrating it this year, in silent protest at our presence. I will command that it be celebrated with all due pomp, whether they like it or not. And to make sure to bring out the crowds for that occasion, I will announce that there will be a great exhibition of a flying ship such as they have never seen. A ship that can transport the French army across the sky and from which they can attack their enemies! That will go far to stamp out the regrettable impression left by the destruction of our fleet.’
With that, Bonaparte turned and strode back to the palace, leaving Nicolas with one thought: to ascertain the extent of the deadline he had been given. He tracked down Magallon in the courtyard.
‘The date of the Prophet’s birthday?’ Magallon looked puzzled. ‘Well, it changes from year to year – the Muslims follow a lunar calendar, you know. But at any rate it must be this month. Why?’
Nicolas groaned; that very month! He was not ready, but as Bonaparte would have already put the word about, there was no help for it. His commandant seemed not to have considered the consequences of a fiasco, he thought grimly; but then it would be Nicolas who would bear the brunt of a disaster. He could not allow the balloon demonstration to be a failure.
‘What manner of woman is it?’
