‘And the mummy component, monsieur?’ asked Fouché.
‘Of no intrinsic value: mere superstition: utility by association. Granted, mummies were people preserved for an afterlife, but not of the active, Lazaran, variety we are concerned with here. The two things, superficially akin, are in truth entirely unconnected. Beef steak would do just as well, if sufficiently sun-dried. As would scrag-end or giblets. I’d recommend any of the cheaper cuts if cost is a consideration…’
More notes were dashed down, in a positive frenzy of pencil work now. Again, Fouché spoke without looking up.
‘I regret to inform you, monsieur, that it is. Ordinarily, matters vital to the Emperor are not bound by sordid budgetary fetters.’
Julius mentally sat up. ‘Emperor.’ It was instructive that he called him that. Servants of the Convention shouldn’t.
‘If his Majesty wished to dine on nothing but black swan,’ Fouché continued, compounding his crimes, ‘then he could and would. However, permit me to confide to you the quite shocking cost of procuring a regular supply of mummies. Not to mention ensuring their genuine antiquity. Rogue merchants descend upon our need like flies to a turd. There have been attempts to foist upon us pseudo mummies of quite recent vintage. Murder victims apparently, sourced from the Orient where life is cheap, and then subjected to crash-mummification via chemical baths. Or so one would-be fraudster told us…’
The Minister finally raised his face and locked looks with Julius. ‘Under torture, naturally…’
Frankenstein wouldn’t oblige him with the sought for reaction, or indeed any give-away.
‘Naturally,’ he agreed.
‘So,’ Fouché went on, head bowed again, ‘to acquire the requisite supply the Egyptian demands we have had to go to extreme lengths and expense. Which, of course, we are happy to do for our beloved Emperor.’
‘And country,’ prompted Julius, feeling playful now that he found his point well received.
‘Just so,’ confirmed Fouché, unfazed. ‘However, the Revolutionary government, though generous in many respects, is not possessed of infinite resources. Securing a steady stream of millennia old mummies has caused us to—what is it the English say?—feel the pinch. Which is an apt choice of phrase because it is those same English who have made it so expensive…’
It is not the done thing in polite company, and certainly not in the presence of patriots, to dwell on a country’s misfortunes and defeats—and never less so than in the case of the French. Yet it was he who’d broached the subject and almost invited comment.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Julius—but considerately, as if dredging up an obscure memory of no great weight in the first place, ‘Lord Nelson, the Battle of the Nile…’
‘The very same, monsieur. Leading to the stranding of our expeditionary force in Egypt and their eventual defeat.’
Despite himself, Julius was doubled impressed by this functionary. He’d never yet heard a Frenchman baldly admit defeat before. ‘Betrayal’ certainly, ‘fate’ quite often, but never the dreaded ‘D’ word. Here was a man specially trained to face cold hard facts. Or possibly someone already so cold as to be immune to them.
‘Since which time,’ said Fouché, ‘the English naval blockade, latterly under the revived Neo-Nelson, has closed the sea-lanes to us to the point of strangulation. Our supply of original Egyptian relics ran out long ago and you cannot conceive the pains required to procure ancient cadavers and safely ferry them here. Nor will I impart these details to you…’
The Minister’s gaze had risen again. Just like those implied secret ships it carried an important cargo: the message that it not forgotten Julius was a foreigner, with divergent loyalties.
‘Suffice to say, our country could support several divisions for the same cost. Twice as many if composed of New-citizens. Or perhaps raise another fleet to contest that intolerable English command of the Seas…’
‘After Trafalgar?’ queried Julius, greatly daring.
‘After Trafalgar,’ Fouché confirmed. ‘Even after Yarmouth Harbour…’
Mere mention of that more recent and still worse debacle, which Julius had politely omitted, suggested they were on new and uniquely candid territory. Then Fouché proved it.
‘Though perhaps you are right. Maybe the seas are forbidden us whilst England has so much as a row-boat left. And Lord Nelson is proof against a sniper’s bullet now. But there is more than one way to skin a cat—or flay a nation. In any case, you follow my argument: we have diverted vast resources to the Egyptian’s demands. Diverted elsewhere they might have succoured several campaigns. Now, if what you say is true it may be of inestimable value—and I use the term advisedly—to our cause.’
‘Which is what?’ asked Julius, opportunistic as any fake mummy dealer.
‘Which is confidential,’ replied Fouché, sealing off that promising avenue. ‘Although you may safely consider it to be no petty project. On the contrary, it is a cause of some importance…’
Frankenstein shrugged. Every human’s parochial little agenda seemed important to them. In the majority it swelled to fill their entire panorama till they could see nothing else.
‘Which, by sad extension,’ Fouché concluded, ‘makes you important to us.’ He snapped his notebook shut. ‘Congratulations.’
Even Fouché’s standard tones suggested that a heart of stone lurked beneath his stone-coloured coat. Now he emphasised the point. And despite that being absolutely no surprise, Frankenstein’s stomach squirmed. It was the first time that had happened in some while. Did it mean he was reacquiring an attachment to life? If so, should he be pleased or berate himself?
Therefore it was no mere curiosity that made him enquire:
‘‘Congratulations’? On what?’
Minister Fouché did not smile. Julius didn’t know it, but people said he never had or would.
‘On your promotion.’
‘Oh, I see…,’ said Julius.
‘And survival,’ added the Minister. ‘Probably…’
The culture at Versailles was such that two enemies could not co-exist, least of all in close proximity or competition. Anything else was an insult to its survival of the fittest ethos.
Hence the vehemence of the Egyptian’s letter and its furious drafting mere minutes after the fracas between him and Frankenstein. A relative innocent in such matters, Julius had not taken counter-measures, and only his incisive intellect during the interview with Minister Fouché saved him.
Now, freshly appointed as new ‘Director of Research’ at the palace, Frankenstein had his appointment confirmed by witnessing the previous occupant’s departure. He was roused from bed and ordered to attend.
It was dawn and the rising sun glinted both on the guillotine’s blade and the Egyptian’s bulging eyes. Purely because of the unearthly hour and for no vindictive reason, Frankenstein was unable to suppress a yawn. The Egyptian, trussed up like a turkey ready for the blade, saw.
In his last use of his head before it was detached, the Egyptian called Julius Frankenstein something that made even the hardened executioner wince.
Chapter 8: SWORD OF DAMOCLES (2)