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?’
‘I do not know, mistress. She is cloaked from head to toe, and insists on speaking to you herself; she will not uncover her face or so much as her eyes. She will not disclose her business and I do not trust her. There is something threatening about her manner. Should I try to dismiss her?’ said Barquq, the head eunuch, looking flustered.
Nafisa hesitated. The fact that the eunuch had not yet dismissed the stranger meant that he had been intimidated or his palm had been greased, and that indicated that the woman was not here for charity. Her curiosity was piqued. ‘Send her to me.’
She sat back down on the window seat and let her maid continue to brush her hair. Her eyes were drawn to the corner of the room where the French clock had once taken pride of place; it was empty now.
The eunuch reappeared with a black-cloaked figure close on his heels. The woman was unusually tall, and her coarse style of dress, her bearing, and what could be surmised from her build and the size of her feet under the long robes, suggested that this was not a lady, and probably not a woman from the city at all. The silver coins sewn on to her veil, and the style of the veil itself – opaque, black, and covering the entire face – was characteristic of the Bedouin of the eastern desert, except that Bedouin women tended to be small and thin. Nafisa had never seen a woman of this build, apart from the rare African tribeswomen from the upper reaches of the Nile. The woman inclined her head and stood by the stairs, silent.
‘Come, mother,’ Nafisa beckoned with some impatience, ‘you are among women now and may unveil. What is your business?’
The woman bowed again and made a gesture in the direction of the maids and the eunuch, indicating that she wished to speak with Nafisa alone.
‘Now really, you go too far,’ Nafisa sighed. She flicked her fingers, dismissing her attendants. ‘All right, then, but be brief, I have little time.’
The woman took a step forward, and whispered in a strange, high voice: ‘What I have to say is for your ears alone. I bring you news from your husband.’
‘You?’ Nafisa snorted. ‘Who are you?’
‘I will tell you, by and by. Have the French approached you with terms for Murad Bey?’ The high voice cracked, like a falsetto.
Nafisa stiffened and ice water ran in her veins. ‘You will tell me who you are, this minute, or I will call out, and you know my eunuchs are behind the door.’
The woman raised her hand, palm up, in a gesture to stop her, then approached. ‘I will uncover, but pray do not cry out. I mean you no harm.’ It was no longer the high falsetto voice. The veil and shawl were cast off to reveal a blond beard flecked with grey and hard blue eyes in a sunburned face.
Nafisa’s shock and alarm gave way to astonishment as she recognized the man before her. ‘Elfi Bey?’
‘Hush.’
