Frankenstein’s Legions

‘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…’