Nearby, General Bonaparte sat atop a gleaming white horse, his expression haughty, his body alert, surrounded by a dozen aides, attendants, and general officers as he bent over a map. The massive tricolor flagged billowed above him. General Dumas was there as well, as were Murat and several other officers.
The French, coming from the north, had the river on their left flank, the desert on their right. In front of André now, the infantry were forming up and closing ranks. The five division commanders, who had been given their orders from General Bonaparte, were peeling their soldiers off and forming what André saw to be massive squares. The divisional square was a new feature of Napoleon’s genius, an impenetrable wall of soldiers and their rifles and bayonets. It stood six ranks deep at the front and rear, three ranks deep on the sides. In theory, but yet unproven, no cavalry charge could defeat this because a horse would not willingly impale itself on a wall of steel.
Men formed the outer perimeter of each square, while in the middle, the soldiers were tossing luggage, supplies, packs, and ammunition for the guns. On the corners of each of the four flanks were placed the cannons. Each square was a small fortress, their gun barrels and bayonets facing in any direction from which an enemy could attack.
General Bonaparte rode out, pausing in front of his army. André sat up a bit taller in his saddle.
“Men, today, our enemy will finally meet the soldiers of France!” Napoleon held his reins in one hand; his other held his bicorn hat aloft. “Remember, from atop those pyramids, forty centuries of history look down upon you. For the Republic! For France!”
André looked past the figure of their high commander toward the south, toward the wall of Mamelukes, assembling before a range of desert mountains. And then he realized: those were not mountains behind the Mamelukes. Those were buildings. Jagged, mountain-like buildings, rising up to the heavens in a proportion that defied reason and belief—that defied anything André would have ever believed achievable by mankind.
“The great pyramids,” André gasped. Earth-colored fortresses that housed the remains of Egypt’s ancient pharaohs, leaders who had slept in their massive tombs since time immemorial. And now, on this day, these unfathomable structures would stand impassive, witness to a desert landscape where more men would join the pharaohs in permanent rest.
July 1798
Daylight shone strong enough now to make clear the army they faced: a host of thousands of Mamelukes. The fighters sat atop lean Arabian horses, a massive and uninterrupted wall stretching across the southern horizon. The river formed the French army’s left flank and the shimmering heat of the desert their right. Beyond them, barely visible in the distance, loomed the Great Pyramid of Khufu and its sisters. To André, they seemed out of place, too sacred for this gritty and soon to be bloody battlefield.
The Mameluke line glistened in the distance; unlike the French, covered in dark blue with red and white, the Mameluke horsemen were a rhapsody of color. Armored plates were strapped across their chests, inlaid with sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and other precious stones. Egret feathers rose from elaborately turbaned heads. Gilded helmets caught the rays of sunlight, glinting brighter than the Nile. The warriors brandished spears, sabers, lances, daggers—each one encrusted in precious stones and elaborate jewels.
“Valière!”
André turned to the familiar voice of General Dumas. “Yes, sir?”
“Your squadron will fall in with Desaix’s square, on the western flank.”
“Yes, sir.” André directed his men, ordering them to fold into the massive square.
“Good, now you’ll come with me,” Dumas roared, and then rode off without looking back to ensure André followed. They raced farther to the west, André unclear of what he would be doing.
Dumas joined a party of about fifty horsemen—dragoons and chasseurs. As André tried to blink away the glare from the shining breastplates, he saw out of the corner of his eye that Murat was there. He wore his usual stern expression, his eyes gazing out over the scene unfolding before them. André saluted. “General Murat.” The general touched the front of his hat to acknowledge the salute.
André turned back toward the river and the waiting Mameluke horde. Over the sound of the French bugles and the shouts of French officers rose another more frightening sound: the trilling of the Mameluke warriors, readying themselves for battle.
Their leader now emerged from the ranks of his horsemen and presented himself for both armies to see. As he rode out in front of his army, he paused, unsheathing his scimitar. When he faced his army, his sword whirling above his head, his fighters began to roar with frenzied war cries. Horns blasting from across the Mameluke lines added to the din, and André wondered if there was a soldier among the French who was unmoved by this spectacle.