across the same key?’
‘I’ve pawned a hundred pieces of the True Cross and scores of fingers and teeth of the great saints. Who is to say what is real and what is false? Just be aware that some men are in earnest about this trinket you claim not to carry.’
‘Maybe Smith is right. Supposing I had it, I should throw it away. Or give it to you.’
‘Not me!’ He looked alarmed. ‘I’m not in a position to use or understand it. If the stories are true, the medallion will only make sense in Egypt where it was crafted. Besides, it brings bad luck to the wrong man.’
‘I can testify to that,’ I confessed gloomily. A beating, murder, escapes, a holdup… ‘Yet a savant like Franklin would say it’s all superstitious nonsense.’
‘Or maybe he would use your new science to investigate it.’
I was impressed with Stefan’s seeming lack of greed, particularly since his tales had helped fuel my own avarice. Too many other parties wanted this medallion, or wanted it buried: Silano, the bandits, the French expedition, the English, and this mysterious Egyptian Rite. This suggested it was so valuable that I should be determined to keep it until I could either unload it at a profit or figure out what the devil it was for. That meant going on to Egypt. And, meanwhile, watching my back.
I glanced at Sarylla. ‘Could your lass, here, tell my fortune?’
‘She is a mistress of the Tarot.’ He snapped his fingers, and she fetched her deck of mystic cards.
I’d seen the symbols before, and the illustrations of death and the devil remained disturbing. In silence she dealt some before the fire, considered, and turned some others: swords, lovers, cups, the magician. She looked puzzled, making no forecast. Finally she held one up.
It was the fool, or jester. ‘He is the one.’
Well, I had it coming, didn’t I? ‘That’s me?’
She nodded. ‘And the one you seek.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The cards say you will learn what I mean when you get where you must go. You are the fool who must find the fool, becoming wise to find wisdom. You are a seeker who must find the first to seek. Beyond that, it is better you don’t know.’ And she’d say nothing more. That’s the knack of prophecy, isn’t it: to be vague as a fine-written contract? I had more wine.
It was well past midnight when we heard the tread of big horses. ‘French cavalry!’ a gypsy sentry hissed.
I could hear their clink and rattle, branches snapping under the hooves. All but one lamp was extinguished and all but Stefan melted toward their wagons. Sarylla took my hand.
‘We must get these clothes off you so you can pretend to be Rom,’ she whispered.
‘You have a disguise for me?’
‘Your skin.’
Well, there was an idea. And better Sarylla than Temple Prison. She took me by the hand and we crept into a vardo, her lithe fingers helping me shed my stained clothing. Hers slipped off as well, her form luminescent in the dim light. What a day! I lay in one of the wagons next to her warm and silken body, listening to Stefan murmur with a lieutenant of cavalry. I heard the words ‘Sidney Smith,’ there were growled threats, and then much tramping about as wagon doors were jerked open. When ours had its turn, we looked up in feigned sleepiness and Sarylla let our blanket slip off her breasts. You can trust they took a good long look, but not at me.
Then, as the horsemen moved off, I listened to what she suggested we do next. Curse or no curse, my journey to Toulon had taken a decided turn for the better.
‘Show me what they do in Egypt,’ I whispered to her.
CHAPTER FIVE
One month later, on May 19 ^ th, 1798, I stood on the quarterdeck of the French flagship L’Orient, 120 guns, not far from the shoulder of the most ambitious man in Europe. Together we and an assembly of officers and savants watched the majestic parade of 180 vessels putting out to sea. The Egyptian expedition was under way.
The blue Mediterranean was white with sail, the ships heeling in the face of a fresh breeze, and the decks still gleamed from the aftermath of a gale we hoped would keep a rumoured British squadron at bay. As the ships bit into the swell past the harbour entrance at Toulon, foam gave each bow a set of teeth. Military bands had assembled on the foredeck of the biggest ships, their brass instruments sparkling, and they competed with each other in noise as they sailed past, playing French patriotic tunes. Cannon from the city’s fortresses boomed a salute, and thirty-four thousand embarked soldiers and sailors gave thunderous cheers as their vessels scudded by Bonaparte’s flagship. He had issued a bulletin promising each of them enough spoils to buy six acres of land.
This was only the beginning. Smaller convoys from Genoa, Corsica’s Ajaccio, and Civitavecchia in Italy would add more French divisions to the Egyptian invasion force. By the time we mustered at Malta there would be four hundred ships and fifty-five thousand men, plus a thousand horses, hundreds of wagons and field artillery, more than three hundred certificated washerwomen expected to provide other morale-building services, and hundreds more smuggled wives and concubines. Aboard as well were four thousand bottles of wine for the officers as a whole and eight hundred choice ones from Joseph Bonaparte’s personal cellar, brought to help his brother entertain. Our commander had also packed a fine city carriage with double harness so he could survey Cairo in style.
‘We are a French army, not an English one,’ he’d told his staff. ‘We live better on campaign than they do in a castle.’
The remark would be remembered with bitterness in the months ahead.
I’d come to Toulon after a meandering gypsy journey on their slow wagons. It had been a pleasant interlude. The ‘priests of Egypt’ showed me simple card tricks, explained the Tarot, and told me more tales of treasure caves and temples of power. None had ever been in Egypt, of course, or knew if their stories had a grain of truth, but story spinning was one of their chief talents and sources of income. I watched them cast optimistic fortunes for milkmaids, gardeners, and constables. What they couldn’t earn with fantasy, they stole, and what they couldn’t steal, they did without. Accompanying the band to Toulon was a far more enjoyable way to complete my escape from Paris than the highway coach, despite knowing that my separation and delay would cause anxiety for Antoine Talma. It was a relief not to have to listen to the journalist’s Masonic theories, however, and I left the warmth of Sarylla with regret.
The port had been a madhouse of preparation and excitement, crammed with soldiers, sailors, military contractors, tavern keepers, and brothel madams. One could spot the famous savants in their top hats, excited and apprehensive, clumping in sturdy boots still stiff from newness. The officers were bright as peacocks in their resplendent uniforms, and ordinary soldiers were excited and cheerfully fatalistic about an expedition with no announced destination. I was reasonably anonymous in such a crowd, my clothes and green coat more stained and worn than ever, but to be safe I swiftly boarded L’Orient in order to stay out of the reach of bandits, antiquarians, gendarmes, lantern bearers, or anyone else who might offer me harm. It was on board that I was finally reunited with Talma.
‘I feared I was entering into peril and adventure in the East without a friend!’ he exclaimed. ‘Berthollet has been concerned as well! Mon dieu, what happened?’
‘I’m sorry I had no way to get word to you. It seemed best to travel quietly. I knew you’d be worried.’
He embraced me. ‘Where’s the medallion?’ I could feel his breath at my ear.
By this time I was cautious. ‘Safe enough, my friend. Safe enough.’
‘What’s that on your finger? A new ring?’ He was looking at the token from Sidney Smith.
‘A gift from gypsies.’
Talma and I briefed each other on our separate adventures. He said the surviving brigands had scattered in confusion after my escape from the coach. Then cavalry came, on the hunt for some other fugitive – ‘it was all bewildering in the dark’ – and the horsemen plunged into the woods. Meanwhile, the coachmen used their team to drag the blocking tree out of the way and the travelling party finally pushed on to an inn. Talma decided to wait for the next day’s stage in case I emerged from the forest. When I didn’t, he went on to Toulon, fearing me dead.
