Where the Light Falls(135)

Jean-Luc still studied the guard, his mind a swirl of confused thoughts.

“There was a coach waiting for her. A big covered coach and a man who come to get her. Friendly enough fellow, even if he was a bit odd looking. Bright orange hair. Gave the name of Marnioc. Or Merillac. Something to that effect.”

Jean-Luc clutched the cold, damp wall of the prison, swallowing hard. He thought about it, about the strange letter that sat in his coat pocket. “Merignac.”

“That’s the one.” The guard nodded, satisfied that they had resolved the predicament. He looked back down to his papers, eager to be done with this interview.

Jean-Luc, however, felt no relief. All he felt was the paralyzing clutch of fear; he was too late. Lazare had her.





July 1798

Their march began well before dawn, the soldiers setting out from their camp at Warraq al-Hadar in the frigid dark, André shivering in his blue coat as the army headed south along the river. The soldiers, tired and cold, grumbled as they watched their campfires recede over their shoulders. As cold as it felt now, it would be that much hotter once the sun peeked out over the desert horizon.

They marched for hours, stopping only once, while it was still dark, for a quick breakfast. As dawn approached, André could make out the Nile to his left, could see that it was widening, growing fuller and faster.

The horses began to whinny, and even André’s temperate gelding began to jerk his head, bucking against the bridle. André had shaken off his fatigue by now, his eyes and senses alert with the knowledge that dawn was almost certain to bring a number of dangers. Just then, as the French army left the river fork behind them, the sun’s first rays sliced over the eastern shore, cutting through the darkness and casting the first spears of light over the ancient landscape.

André shifted in his saddle, examining the faces of those around him. Several paces back, Ashar rode, speaking with one of the French dragoons who rode at his side. He saw André and waved his right hand. André motioned for his friend to join him at the head of the column.

“You always seem to appear when something important is about to take place, my friend. So tell me, what shall we expect for today?” André asked.

The Egyptian looked up, his face aglow in the orange light of the sunrise. “Giza is as sacred a land as any, Major. By God’s grace, your general has managed to see us this far.” Ashar took in a deep breath and closed his eyes. “But now, we must simply wait for whatever fate God has chosen for us.”

“Are they really that impressive, these mausoleums?” André asked, skeptical. All the men were abuzz with the excitement of beholding the great pyramids, but Paris had the Panthéon—their own massive mausoleum—and stunning cathedrals that had been the envy of all of Christendom for centuries; surely these tombs would not outshine the French capital.

Ashar considered the question before answering: “Every pharaoh who lived and died wished for Giza to be his eternal resting place. I might tell you of their splendor, but you shall behold them with your own eyes soon. And then, you may answer your own question.”

Just then, André’s horse started, snorting and pawing the ground. He stroked the beast’s neck to soothe the nervous animal, but when he squinted, his eyes forward, he saw what had spooked it. Up ahead, bathed in the gentle rays of the early-morning sun, was a massive rising cloud, a grim shadow forming from out of the earth. “Dust,” André said.

“Mamelukes,” Ashar added, his voice steady.

André clutched his reins, his horse jerking nervously beneath him. “Steady, now,” he said, soothing the beast. He narrowed his eyes and willed them to give him a better picture of the foreign army. “Good God, how many are there?”

The men around him had gone quiet. Most had not slept all night. They’d marched several miles in the frigid dark of predawn, on stomachs empty of anything but bits of fruit that did little more than upset their insides. And now, in the distance, it appeared as if the entire desert was slowly surging toward them.

André peered into the distance once more, sharpening his gaze to focus on the figures beneath the massive plume of dust that rose to the heavens. It looked like an entire nation on horseback.

The Egyptian nodded as he beheld the scene before them. “Each Mameluke warrior has a servant to carry his weapons while on the march. A cluster of tambourine players to serenade his horse’s steps. They have their children and women. War, for them, is not an event separate from life. War is life.”

André turned from the distant scene to survey the French forces all around him. Just then, French scouts rode past André and out beyond the front units. On all sides of his squadron, the infantry continued its advance to the shrill notes of the fifes and the deep rhythm of the drums. Tricolor flags waved in the morning breeze, and men who could barely stand just minutes ago held their heads high and marched in time, fueled now by fear and adrenaline.