Napoleon's Pyramids by William Dietrich Page B

were being recruited for the wars and trade spawned by revolution. While industrialists grew rich, the countryside grew bare and cities became shrouded in stinking fogs. If the ancients could do things by clean magic, more power to them.
    “Besides, the knowledge to be sought is science,” Talma went on. “Plato brought it to philosophy. Pythagoras brought it to geometry. Moses and Solon brought it to law. All are different aspects of Truth. Some say it was the last great native pharaoh, the magician Nectanebo, who lay with Olympias and fathered Alexander the Great.”
    “I’ve told you I don’t want to emulate a man who died at thirty-two.”
    “In Toulon you will meet the new Alexander, perhaps.”
    Or perhaps Bonaparte was simply the latest momentary hero, one defeat away from obscurity. In the meantime, I’d milk him for a pardon for a crime I hadn’t committed by being as ingratiating as I could tolerate.
    We left the devastation, the highway entering what once was aristocratic parkland. It had been confiscated by the Directory from whichever noble or church official had owned it. Now it was open to peasants, poachers, and squatters, and I could glimpse crude camps of the poor set amid the trees, wisps of smoke drifting from their fires. It was getting near evening, and I hoped we’d reach an inn soon. My bottom ached from the pounding.
    Suddenly there was a shout from the coachman, and something crashed ahead. We reined to a halt. A tree had fallen and the horses had bunched, neighing in confusion. The tree’s butt looked chopped through. Dark figures were emerging from the wood, their arms pointing at the coachman and footman above.
    “Robbers!” I shouted, feeling for the tomahawk I still wore under my coat. While my skill had rusted, I felt I could still hit a target from thirty feet. “Quick, to arms! Maybe we can fight them off!”
    But as I bounded off the coach I was met by the napping customs officer, who had suddenly come wide awake, jumped nimbly off, and met me by aiming an enormous pistol at my chest. The mouth of its barrel seemed as wide as a scream.
    “ Bonjour, Monsieur Gage,” he addressed. “Throw your savage little hatchet on the ground, if you please. I am to take either you or your bauble back to Paris.”

CHAPTER FOUR
     
    T he thieves, or agents—they were too often the same in revolutionary France—lined us up like pupils in a schoolyard and began to strip us of valuables. With the addition of the supposed customs officer, there were six of them, and when I studied them in the dim light I started. Two looked like the gendarmes who had first tried to arrest me in Paris. Was the lantern bearer here too? I didn’t see him. Some held pistols aimed at the coachmen, while the others focused on us passengers, taking purses and pocket watches.
    “The police have devised a new way of levying taxes?” I asked caustically.
    “I’m not certain he really is a customs officer,” the hatter spoke up.
    “Silence!” Their leader aimed his weapon at my nose as if I’d forgotten he carried it. “Don’t think I’m not acting for people in authority, Monsieur Gage. If you don’t surrender what I want you’ll meet more police than you care to, in the bowels of a state prison.”
    “Surrender what?”
    “I believe his name is actually Gregoire,” the hatter added helpfully.
    My interrogator cocked his pistol. “You know what! It must go to scholars who can put it to proper use! Open your shirt!”
    The air was cold on my breast. “See? I have nothing.”
    He scowled. “Then where is it?”
    “Paris.”
    The muzzle swung to Talma’s temple. “Produce it or I blow your friend’s brains out.”
    Antoine blanched. I was fairly certain he’d never had a gun aimed at him before, and I was becoming truly annoyed. “Be careful with that thing.”
    “I will count to three!”
    “Antoine’s head is hard as a rock. The ball will ricochet.”
    “Ethan,” my friend