‘An answer to a question, highness. That’s all I ask of you.’
His highness cheered up. So it might not be some sordid transaction involving gold or promotion after all.
‘Ah, that’s different. Such a modest request I’m more inclined to grant…’
‘But will I have the truth, highness? Your very first thought, free of censorship?’
Napoleon, an Emperor, and ‘First Marshall’ of Conventionary France, the greatest man of his age (and also, technically, the one succeeding it), was intrigued. He was growing glad he’d collected this particular butterfly for his collection.
‘I am not to be dictated to, Frankenstein; but what you ask is quite possible. A honest answer: why not? Ask away.’
Julius drew deep breath and let go. It could have been about the rope and stretch marks around the Imperial neck but he dared to dive darker and deeper still.
‘Then my question is this: why?’
The Emperor was puzzled. At the very least he’d been expecting names and dates, say about a specific murder or missing treasure ship.
‘‘Why’ what?’
Frankenstein spread his hands to encompass the room, the palace, the whole wide world moulded by this man, and the glittering career that had led to here and now. With a pleasurable shock the Emperor suddenly understood.
It would be a lie to say his Imperial highness had never posed that question to himself, in sleepless early hours or during tedious state functions. Then, when answer—quite unexpectedly—arrived and was honed to shining perfection, he’d kept it secret like a precious possession. But here was this here-today-and-gone-tomorrow little-person impudently requesting sight of it from him, asking for all—all!—to be revealed!
Initial reaction was to balk and fob off with some witticism, perhaps something stolen from the vast cliché collection of his former first minister, Talleyrand. However, somehow the sheer insignificance of the asker swept away all objections. The ant was asking why? of the elephant that could crush it. It was so novel as to be intriguing: even naughty…
All his life the Emperor had played his cards close to his chest, solitary and secretive as an oyster. He’d always been in charge, first of himself and then of other men. But now the temptation to divulge, just this once, was overwhelming: nigh erotic.
His first framed and dismissive answer was dissolved in emotion, quite melted away. The Emperor closed his eyes and visualised his own epitaph
‘I will tell you ‘why,’’ he said, almost quivering with emotion. ‘I will! It is… because I wish to carve my name upon the stone of history! To carve it so very very deep that not even God can erase it!’
And in this way, by dint of simple daring, Julius Frankenstein learnt what the finest minds in Europe had sweated and spoilt their nights over, but despaired of discovering. The question that kings and prime ministers sponsored secret conferences about, to no avail.
Now, Julius Frankenstein, a mere glorified grave-robber, knew the truth of it. Now there were two in Europe that were aware—and only one of them alive.
‘Even aeons from now,’ the Emperor continued, almost shouting and possessed by passion, ‘it must never be as if I never were!’
Frankenstein’s spirits plunged, though he was careful to keep his face rapt. So that was it? The very same banal impulse that led men to etch their of-no-interest-to-anyone initials upon trees and ancient monuments? Except that this impulse was writ large and in the blood of multitudes. Empires had been moulded like clay and oceans of tears shed for this?
‘I see…,’ he said. Which he did and was sadder for it.
‘Good,’ said Napoleon. ‘But keep it to yourself…’
Both of them were fatigued by their talk, albeit in different ways. Frankenstein was glad to see the Emperor make a signal and cause a curtain to fall between them.
It must have lead-weighted, because Julius had to step back lively to ensure he wasn’t enveloped. That step took him into collision with hitherto invisible guards. They were huge in all dimensions, even bigger than the normal run of Old Guard.
‘Come along with us, there’s a good little dead-doctor,’ said one, laying a plate-like hand on Julius’ shoulder.
Before he was guided away, Frankenstein saw that the reverse of the curtain took the form of a huge map. And although the fall of light did not completely oblige, he got a good glimpse. Good enough to observe that the frontiers shown bore no relation whatsoever to present reality.
Clearly, the Emperor was far from finished carving history yet.
Chapter 6: MUMMY!
Speaking of carving…
‘Who amongst you humble students wishes to know a secret?’
Of course they did: they were scientists, after a fashion, and men of enquiring mind. Yet the Egyptian paused and waited till they’d all raised their hands like schoolboys. Frankenstein felt degraded but realised that secrets usually came at a price. He took a gamble on it being worth paying.
‘Then I will tell you…,’ said the Egyptian, lowering his turban and voice likewise. ‘It is this: that all who came before me erred. They were imbeciles! Blind men in a lightless room, groping for a black cat that is not there. Before the era of I, the Egyptian, Revivalism was indistinguishable from black magic, and just as reliable…’
Julius could have been insulted but instead almost laughed. Memories of great-uncle Victor were few: he’d embarked on his hunt for the murdering monster he’d created whilst Julius was still young. He’d never returned to Geneva and lay buried or burnt, depending on who you believed, in the frozen north. Yet, as Julius grew up, ‘Uncle Victor’s presence remained palpable. His darkened study-cum-laboratory remained untouched in the family home and young Julius had often disobeyed strict instructions to never venture in. He could still visualise it as if there: the orderly rows of medical tomes, the neatly laid-out instruments, sharp and gleaming. Anything less like ‘black magic’ was scarcely imaginable. Victor Frankenstein had been a man of the modern age par excellence: someone who’d dared wrangle with the Almighty about His monopoly on creation.
And look where it had got him! Who in fact was the wiser? Uncle Victor or this pantomime actor from the mystic orient?
So, Julius kept his face straight and said nothing. Indeed, a increasingly promising student of deceit, he even tried to match the agog expressions worn by his fellow ‘inductees.’ Their pens were poised and he copied them.
The Egyptian drew back from their desks, taking his miasma of sweat and incense with him.
‘And the secret of the Egyptian?’ he teased, preparing them for life-changing illumination, even glancing at the guarded door as if to make sure no one could escape to shriek ‘eureka!’ ‘This prize-amongst-prizes? My great discovery?’
This was worse than a certain chambermaid of Julius’ adolescent acquaintance. First she said she would, then she said she might, and finally she transpired to be ‘a good girl.’ Memory of those aching loins of long ago made Frankenstein angry.
‘Is…?’ he prompted, earning a ‘if looks could kill’ instant death from under the bushy brows.
‘Is,’ hissed the Egyptian, licking his lips, ‘unpowdered mummy!’
And all three recent recruits to the Emperor’s secret Revivalist service scribbled away as though their teacher transmitted revelation. Except that had anyone read Frankenstein’s notebook they would see he’d made a fuss of writing just one word, writ large: