“What?” She was a small woman, I now assessed, slim and finely dressed, neither homely nor particularly beautiful, her skin warm, her nose straight, her lips full, her eyes attractively wide and dark and, even in their desperation, intelligent. She had dark hair and finely sculpted ears, but her complexion was blotchy from crying. “How could you know him?”
“We served with Bonaparte in Egypt. We’re hurrying ourselves, to warn him of terrible danger.”
“You
“That a companion, Alessandro Silano, plans to betray him.”
“Count Silano? He’s coming with my husband, I heard. He’s supposed to be a confidant and adviser.”
“He’s bewitched Napoleon, and has tried to turn him against you.
But we can help. You’re attempting to reconcile?” She bowed her head, eyes wet. “It’s been such a surprise. We had no warning he was coming. I rushed from my dearest friend to meet him. But these idiots took a wrong turn.” She leaned out the carriage window and gripped Astiza’s arms. “You must tell him that despite everything, I still love him! If he divorces me, I lose everything! My children will be penniless! Is it my fault he goes away for months and years?”
“Then the gods have arranged this accident, don’t you think?” Astiza said.
“The gods?”
I drew my companion back. “What are you doing?” I hissed.
“Here is our key to Bonaparte!” Astiza whispered. “He’ll be surrounded by soldiers. How else are we going to get to him save through his wife? She’s not faithful to him or anything else, which means she’ll ally with anyone who suits her purpose. That means we have to enlist Josephine on our side. She can find out where the scroll is when she beds him, when men lose what little wits they have. Then we steal it back!”
“What are you whispering about?” Josephine called.
Astiza smiled. “Please, lady, our own carriage is ruined but it’s t h e
r o s e t t a k e y
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imperative we reach your husband. I think we can help each other. If you’d let us ride with you we can help you reconcile.”
“How?”
“My companion is a wise Freemason. We know the key to a sacred book that could give Napoleon great power.”
“Freemason?” She squinted at me. “Abbot Barruel in his famed book said they were behind the revolution. The Jacobins were all a Masonic plot. But the
“I see the future in your husband, lady,” I lied.
Josephine looked intrigued, and calculating. “Sacred book?”
“From Egypt,” Astiza said. “If we ride we can be in Paris by dawn.” Somewhat surprisingly, she assented. She was so rattled by Napoleon’s reappearance and his undoubted fury at her adulterous ways that she was eager for any help, no matter how improbable. So we left our own stolen coach a wreck, half its horses shot, our gypsies hiding, and took hers to Paris.
“Now. You must tell me what you know or I will throw you out,” she warned.
We had to gamble. “I found a book that conveys great powers,” I began.
“What kind of powers?”
“The power to persuade. To enchant. To live unnaturally long, perhaps forever. To manipulate objects.”
Her eyes were wide and greedy.
“Count Silano has stolen this book and fastened onto Bonaparte like a leech, draining his mind. But the book hasn’t been translated.
Only we can do so. If his wife was to offer the key, on the understanding that Silano must be displaced, then you’d get your marriage back. I’m proposing an alliance. With our secret, you can get into your husband’s bedchamber. With your influence, we can get back our book, dispose of Silano, and help Napoleon.” She was wary. “What key?”
“To a strange, ancient language, long lost.” Astiza turned on Jose-3 0 8
w i l l i a m d i e t r i c h
phine’s coach seat and I gently unlaced the back of her dress. The fabric parted, revealing the intricate alphabet in henna.
The Frenchwoman gasped. “It looks like Satan’s writing!”
“Or God’s.”
Josephine considered. “Who cares whose it is, if we win?” Was Thoth finally smiling on us? We raced toward Bonaparte’s house on the newly renamed Rue de la Victoire, a tribute to his victories in Italy. And, with no plan, no confederates, and no weapons, we drew this ambitious social climber into our confidence.
What did I know about Josephine? The kind of gossip Paris thrived on. She grew up on the island of Martinique, was half a dozen years older than Napoleon, two inches shorter, and a tenacious survivor.
She’d married a rich young army officer, Alexandre de Beauharnais, but he was so embarrassed by her provincial manners that he refused to present her to the court of Marie Antoinette. She separated from him,
