His captor bent over him, roughly untied the loop of cord round his wrist, spat in his face and kicked him. The man then took the bridle of his horse and joined his companions, who were leading away their horses. Other dark-faced, turbaned men came forward. Two of them dragged Roger to his feet and hustled him across the courtyard to a low doorway. As they did so he saw that he had three companions in misfortune. The four of them were pushed through the door, along a short passage and down a spiral stairway. At the bottom a negro opened a massive wooden door with thick, iron bolts. The light from the torches showed that it gave on to a low, barrel-vaulted dungeon. The prisoners were thrown head first into it, the door clanged to and total darkness descended on them.
The four captives were too utterly exhausted and bemused by pain even to speak to one another. They simply lay where they had been thrown, sobbing and groaning. After what seemed an interminable time, nature took charge and Roger fell into an uneasy dose.
He was aroused by a hoarse voice croaking for water. He had none to give the sufferer and realized that he was terribly parched himself. As he sat up he gave an 1 ouch' of pain, for he had used his left hand in raising his body. Gingerly he felt his wrist and feared it had been dislocated. He was a mass of aching bruises and his scalp still pained him; but he decided that apart from his wrist, he had sustained no serious injury.
Out of the darkness came another voice that asked, ' Who are you fellows? '
'1 am Colonel Breuc,' Roger replied, and the prisoner who had been moaning for water answered:
' I'm Trooper Auby.'
' And I'm Corporal Gensonnd.' There was a short silence, then the Corporal spoke again. 'There was four of us. Come on; speak up, number four.'
Silence fell again, then came the sound of scraping. Sparks appeared, a small flame flared and by its light Roger saw two gnarled hands with a grimy, grey-moustached face above them. It was the Corporal; with a tinder-box he had lit a scrap of paper. Carefully guarding the flame, he moved it till the light fell on the others. The glimpse Roger got of Auby showed the trooper to be little more than a boy. His cheek had been laid open by a slash from a scimitar and the blood had congealed on it. The fourth prisoner lay on his back, quite still. After one look at him, the Corporal said :
' 'E's got nothing to worry about. 'E's a gonner.'
' Worry', thought Roger, was the appropriate word. As Bonaparte would not even be starting his siege operations until that day or the next, there was no possible hope of rescue. On considering matters he found it surprising that he was still alive, for the Turks normally took no prisoners. He could only suppose that Djezzar had ordered one of his captains to bring in a few so that they could be questioned about the French dispositions. As the word ' questioned' ran through Roger's mind, it gave him another shudder. Being ' put to the question' was synonymous with being tortured, and he had no doubt whatever that whether they remained silent, lied to please their enemies or told the truth the Turks would use torture on them. They would then be made slaves or, quite probably, as the Pasha was reported to be a monster of cruelty, put to death in some hideous manner.
The Corporal's spill had soon flickered out and he asked if either of the others had any paper on him. Auby had none, neither had Roger, except for Bonaparte's letters which were still sewn into the hem of his travelling coat; and he had no intention of giving those up, unless he saw a chance of buying his life with them.
In hoarse whispers they continued occasionally to exchange remarks. Young Auby was a conscript and the son of a farmer in the Beuce. He had been about to marry his sweetheart when he was compelled to leave her for the Army. In addition to the wound on his face, he had been shot in the side and was evidently in a very bad way. The Corporal was a Lyonnais who for many years had been a professional soldier. He did not seem to be afraid of death, and only grumbled that it looked as if it had caught up with him just after he had had the ill luck to miss the sack of Jaffa, at which he could have had a last, glorious fling slitting the throats of Turks and raping their women.
They had no idea of the time and were too miserable to feel hungry, but thirst plagued them more and more as the hours crawled by. Now and then they heard a faint scampering that told them that rats had been attracted to the dungeon by their subtle knowledge that there was a corpse in it. The thought that the brutes had begun to eat their dead companion filled Roger with horror.
None of them had been searched; so Roger still had his money-belt round his waist and he wondered if, with its contents, he might possibly bribe one of his jailers to help him escape, but he thought it highly unlikely. Why should any of them risk death? If he showed his gold to one of them it was all Lombard Street to a China orange that the man would simply knock him down and take it from him.
At last a streak of light showed under the heavy door, the bolts were shot back and it was pulled open In the glare of the torches Roger glimpsed the rats scampering away from the dead trooper's body. A Turk, who was evidently the senior jailer, shouted, ' Up dogs of Christians! Up, I say, that you may be sent to your maker, Iblis.'
Roger drew a sharp breath. He had picked up enough Turkish to know that Iblis was the Devil, and to be sent to him signified that they were about to die. He got to his feet and his companions followed his example. Surrounded by armed guards they were taken up the stone stairway and out into the courtyard.
It was late afternoon and a sunny day. From the immensely strong square tower that reared up on the landward side of the court Roger could tell now that they were in the great citadel of the fortress, as he had several times studied it through a telescope from the deck of Tigre.
His glance next fell on a group of half a hundred men grouped beneath the tall casbah. A low dais had been erected there and a solitary figure was seated cross-legged on it on a pile of cushions. From the richness of his robes, the rings that sparkled on his fingers, his jewel-hilted scimitar and the great pigeon's-blood ruby that held an aigrette erect in his enormous, flat turban, Roger had no doubt that he was Djezzar Pasha. To either side and behind him were ranged his entourage. Their costume had changed little since the days of the Saracens and in their circular, pointed helmets, from which depended chain-mail ear-pieces, burnished corselets, jewelled girdles and colourful tunics, they presented a splendid spectacle. Near the dais was a small, wizened man, evidently a Councillor, wearing a green turban, showing that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Beside him towered an enormous negro, naked to the waist and carrying a drawn scimitar. He was obviously the official executioner.
But Roger's glance rested only for an instant on this brilliant array of warriors. At the sight of another erection in front of the dais he had gone white to the lips. It consisted of eight small platforms, about three feet in height, arranged in pairs, each pair being a yard apart. Between the pairs stood four stout stakes, the height of a man and sharply pointed at the upper ends. He gulped, gave a shudder and instantly began to sweat with terror. It was clear to him now that the fiendish Pasha had told his cavalry to bring in prisoners not so that he might extract information from them, but simply to have them killed in his presence for his amusement.
That row of stakes could mean only one thing. A favourite method with the Turks of putting criminals to death was to impale them, and that was the ghastly end which Djezzar clearly meant to inflict on Roger and his companions.
Corporal Gensonne and Trooper Auby, being ignorant of Turkish customs, had evidently not realized the awful purpose that the stakes were to serve. The Corporal was marching forward between his guards, unaided and with set but courageous mien. The Trooper's wound had opened and blood from his right side was seeping down his pale-blue breeches. With the help of two guards, he was limping forward. His face showed fright but no special terror. Roger had halted in his tracks, but was pushed on by the men on either side of him.
As he advanced, he was visualizing the ghastly scene which must soon be enacted. Each pair of guards would mount the low platforms, dragg
ing their prisoner up with them. They would lift him breast-high, force his legs apart, bringing the point of the stake in contact with his anus. Then, each seizing a leg, they would jump down from their platforms, so that their weight would drive the stake up into their victim's body. If they did their work well the point of the stake would come out of the prisoner's mouth or the top of his head. If they bungled it it would emerge through his chest or the side of his neck. But for him that would be a matter of no importance for, in any case, as the stake pierced his vitals he would suffer unimaginable agony.
The prisoners were brought to within a few yards of Djezzar. Roger found himself staring into the cruel, hook-nosed face with its handsome, curly beard and fine, upturned moustaches. Suddenly, in a hoarse voice, he began to plead for himself and his companions. One of his guards struck him in the mouth, reducing him to silence.
The Pasha gave a curt order that the executions should begin and pointed to young Auby. His guards flung him to the ground and ripped off his breeches. Either from terror or because he had lost so much blood from his wound, he fainted. The two muscular
Turks lugged him up between them and forced his limp body on to the stake. Suddenly he came to, his eyes starting from his head, and he gave an awful groan. But it was all over in a moment. The point of the stake came out from his neck and his head flopped forward.
As the deed was done, Roger heard a sudden chatter of excited female voices. Looking round, he saw that about twenty feet up from the courtyard, in a wall at right-angles to the line of stakes, there was a row of open arches. They were filled by about twenty veiled women, who had evidently been summoned to see the fun. A few of them had their eyes averted, or covered with a hand, to shut out the atrocious sight of Auby's sagging body. But the majority were staring down eagerly at it and some were crying in shrill voices:
' Praise be to Allah and blessed be His Prophet! Death to the Infidels! Death to the Unbelievers! '
But Roger's glance rested on them only for a moment. At the sight of Auby's death, Corporal Gensonne realized what was in store for him. Giving a furious curse he turned on the guard who stood on his right and with one blow knocked him down. The other guard grabbed him by the shoulders. But Gensonne wriggled free and kicked him in the groin. Swerving away, he dodged a third man who had come at him and ran towards the great gate, which stood wide open.
For a moment Roger was seized by an impulse to follow his example. But there had been half a dozen guards lounging by the gate. They were now running in a group to intercept the Corporal and the head jailer with three of his men had dashed in pursuit of him. Against such odds no attempt to escape could possibly succeed.
Djezzar was roaring with laughter at the discomfiture of the two guards who had been standing on either side of Gensonne. But the Corporal's bravery did not incline the sadistic Pasha to clemency. With an amused smile he waited as the ten Turks closed round the solitary Frenchman, seized him by the arms and dragged him, blaspheming wildly, back to the line of stakes. While four of them held him, two others wrenched the breeches from his kicking legs, then they carried him between them to the stake next to that upon which Auby's body hung impaled. Roger closed his eyes to shut out the horror of what followed. The Corporal screamed and screamed and screamed, then suddenly fell silent.
Again there came from the women's balcony treble cries of: ' Death to the Christian dogs! To Iblis with the Unbelievers! ' Roger knew then that his turn had come. Within the next few minutes life for him would be over. Never more would he enjoy the passionate embrace of his beautiful Georgina, never again see the green fields of England. Starting forward, he shouted to the Pasha in the best Turkish he could muster, and with all the strength of his lungs:
' Excellency! If you have me killed Allah will call you to account for my death. I have had no trial, but could prove my innocence. I am no enemy but a friend. I have papers to prove it. Sir Sidney Smith will vouch for me. I am not a Frenchman but English and your ally.'
One of the guards again silenced him by striking him on the mouth. Suddenly one of the women up in the balcony cried, ' He lies. He is a French Colonel. I knew him in Cairo.'
Instantly Roger recognized the voice. It was Zanthe's. Looking up he saw her leaning right out over the balcony. The tawny eyes above her yashmak marked her out from the other dark-eyed women. Djezzar also looked up and called back:
' Then, moon of my delight, we'll make him wriggle on a stick.' ' No, Pasha, no! ' she cried. ' Such a death is too swift for him. In Cairo he insulted me. I pray you to give him to me so that I may see him die by inches. Give him to me for a plaything so that I may be avenged on him.'
Giving a bellow of laughter, the bearded Pasha waved a hand to her and shouted, ' Beautiful one, when your red lips speak, to hear is to obey. He is yours, to do with as you will.'
' May Allah reward you, mighty Pasha,' she called down. ' I'll have him castrated, then he shall live on offal served in our chamber-pots.'
The mail-clad men surrounding Djezzar roared their applause and the women up in the balcony with Zanthe broke into peals of shrill laughter.
At a sign from the Pasha, two of the guards took Roger by the elbows, hurried him away across the courtyard, down the spiral stairs, thrust him back into the dungeon and again shut him up there in the pitch darkness.
Sinking down on the floor, he propped his back against the slimy wall. His thoughts were so chaotic that for a few minutes he could hardly grasp that, temporarily at least, his life was safe.
By a miracle he had escaped the excruciating agony of having a four-inch stake rammed through his intestines and dying with its point lodged in his gullet.
Zanth6's unexpected appearance at the critical moment had at first amazed him. But after a few moments' thought he realized that it was not particularly surprising. When the Sultan had declared war on France the previous autumn, the Turkish officials in Cairo would have been secretly apprised of it long before Bonaparte learned that the "Porte had openly become his enemy. Naturally, on one excuse or other, the highly placed Turks in Egypt would have slipped away to Syria, taking their women with them. As Acre was the capital of Syria it was logical that Zanthe, and whoever was now her protector, should have taken refuge there.
As Roger's mind cleared he began fearfully to speculate on what was in store for him. He had been saved from an agonizing death, but only by a woman who nursed a bitter hatred for him. She had shouted down that she intended to have him castrated. At the thought the saliva ran hot in his mouth and his flesh crept, swallowing hard, he wondered if he would not have been more fortunate had he suffered those few minutes of searing pain and now was dead.
In a swift series of pictures his mind ran back over the key episodes in his association with Zanthe. He had taken her by force, enjoyed her, then found that she had spoken the truth when she had declared herself to be a virgin. Yet he had been for several weeks afterwards under the illusion that, although she had at first fought him off, the pleasure she had later felt during his embrace, wordlessly confessed beyond dispute by her passionate response, had been a positive indication that next time she would give herself willingly to him.
But when he had carried her off from the Viceroy's palace she had swiftly shattered that optimistic belief. With renewed distress, and now with fear, he recalled how she had declared that should he again attempt her she would resist him to the utmost. He remembered also the intense resentment she had expressed at his having ravished her on that first occasion.
And now she had him at her mercy. She could not have made plainer her reason for asking of Djezzar his life. Clearly, she intended to revenge herself on him by depriving him of his manhood and, not content with that, meant to extract payment from him, by hours of degradation and torment, for every moment of pleasure he had had with her.
He did not have very long to wait before his punishment began. After he had spent about an hour in miserable contemplation of his fate the jailers came for him again. They mar
ched him up to the courtyard, across it and through a door under the balcony from which the women had watched the impaling of Auby and Gensonne, then up a flight of stairs and through several passages to a door on which the Chief Jailer knocked loudly with the hilt of his dagger. After a few moments an iron grille was lifted and a pair of heavily lidded eyes peered at them. The door was then opened by a hugely fat negro with several chins, whom Roger at once placed as a eunuch. At a piping call from him, two other eunuchs appeared, took the prisoner over from the jailers and hustled him inside.
The vestibule through which they took him was lit by hanging lanterns made from silver filigree work, encrusted with coloured glass. By the soft light they gave he saw that the walls were hung with rich silk Persian rugs of beautiful design and that the place was furnished with chests of rare wood inlaid with ivory. No sound penetrated to this luxurious apartment and the delicious scent of jasmine hung on the still air.
Roger was taken through a hanging curtain of beads, down a corridor, through another room—an aviary, where dozens of cages held twittering birds of every rainbow hue—then into a loftier chamber with on one side slim, marble pillars supporting arches of lace-like carved stone. The arches gave on to a long balcony that had a lovely view over the bay, in which the ships of Sir Sidney Smith's Squadron were lying at anchor.
But Roger knew that they were much too far off for anyone in them to hear a cry for help, however loud his shouts, and after one glance to seaward his gaze became riveted on Zanthe. She was seated at the far end of the room, cross-legged on a low divan heaped with cushions. Squatting on the floor near her were two other women and behind the divan stood a fat, elderly negress. All the women were wearing yashmaks, but the silk of Zanthe's was so diaphanous that, as Roger advanced, he could see her lower features clearly through it.
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