The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  Having stripped to the buff, he slipped on a silk robe that he had bought the previous day, poured himself another glass of wine, drank it off and advanced on Zanthé. She had been standing by the big divan with her back half turned, so as to avert her eyes from him while he was undressing. In a final effort to render her complaisant he said:

  ‘My very dear and beautiful Zanthé. Once more I beg you to be reasonable. As you have been married you know what to expect and have naught to fear. Your husband is dead and you had no love for him. As a woman of French extraction you cannot really regard me as an enemy. Were it not for me you would now be going through hell upon bare boards, under a succession of filthy, brutal ruffians, and———’

  ‘I should not,’ she cut him short. ‘I should have killed myself.’

  ‘Oh, come!’ he protested. ‘That is easier said than done; unless you have a swift poison on you.’

  ‘No!’ she cried. ‘With this!’ And, with a sudden movement, she whipped out a razor-sharp, jewel-hilted stiletto from under her black robes.

  Roger took a swift pace back. ‘I see!’ he exclaimed. Then he laughed. ‘Now that gives me real pleasure. The fact that you are armed removes my last scruple about using force upon you. If you can protect yourself with that ugly weapon, even should you wound me seriously I will have you escorted to your home in the morning. If not you must submit to being ravished and delight in it, as did primitive woman with primitive man after he had fought with her and dragged her to his cave.’

  Zanthé made no reply. She was breathing fast, but her eyes were now narrowed and fearless; and she held her dagger well back, ready to plunge it into him.

  For a moment they eyed one another cautiously. Then he snatched up a cushion and threw it at her head. She ducked and glared at him. He laughed and threw another. Again, with an agile movement, she swayed her body sideways, so that it passed over her shoulder. Turning away he poured the last glass of wine from the bottle with leisurely inconsequence. Returning, he confronted her and said, still smiling, ‘You enchanting little fool. It is quite futile for you to exert yourself.’ Then he raised the glass to his lips and drank again.

  Seizing the advantage he had given her by tilting back his head, she raised her dagger and, her eyes blazing at his provocation, leapt at him. But he was ready for her. Instantly his glass came down and he flung its remaining contents straight in her face. Temporarily blinded by the wine, her rush ended in a stumble. Dropping the glass, he seized in one hand the wrist that held the dagger, twisted it from her with the other and flung it behind him to the far end of the room.

  As she reeled back, still blinded, he gave her a violent push, his mouth now set in a hard line. The backs of her knees came in sharp contact with the edge of the divan. Her feet shot from beneath her and she fell prostrate upon it. Next moment, ignoring her screams for help, his hands were tearing at her black garments, wrenching them off, to reveal first her bosom then her torso. Beneath her outer garments she was wearing a belt of gold net, set with precious stones, and a pair of voluminous red silk trousers, caught in at the ankles with gold bands. Holding her down with one hand, he tore those away with the other until she had not a vestige of clothing left on her.

  For a moment he stood back while, panting and gasping, she tried to get the stinging wine out of her eyes by rubbing them with her knuckles. Staring down at her naked body he saw with delight that it was as perfect as her face. Her breasts were full and stood up proudly, her hips were beautifully rounded and her legs were longer in proportion to her body than those of the average woman.

  ‘Now!’ he cried breathlessly.

  ‘Now, will you give in?’ ‘No!’ Her voice came in a hoarse shout. ‘Never! Never!’

  His response was to fling himself on her. For a few minutes she struggled wildly, endeavouring to claw his face and bite his chin. But he jerked his head away and beat down her hands. Suddenly her body contracted beneath him and she gave a sharp scream. Then, just as suddenly, her limbs relaxed and she began to moan. He had often heard women moan like that and knew that it was from pleasure. Another few moments and she became as wild with passion as himself. Her arms came round him and clasped him in a vice. In Turkish she cried out some phrase to Allah that he could not interpret. Then it was all over.

  Exhausted by their transports, they lay side by side, his arm encircling her neck. After a while she pulled away from him, turned her face to the wall and began to cry quietly. He knew the reason for her tears, and felt badly about them. In one thing, at least, she had not lied to him. She had, after all, proved to be a virgin. That accounted for the prolonged resistance she had put up, and it seemed evident now that her husband must have been a homosexual. But nothing could now undo what had been done and Roger endeavoured to comfort himself with the thought that she had suffered little by comparison with the fate that would have been hers at the hands of the men from whom he had rescued her. The dawn was already filtering through the curtains, and he fell asleep.

  It seemed that he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was roused by Marbois knocking on the door. Bonaparte was an early riser and expected his Staff to be in attendance the moment he was ready to transact business. Roger would have given a great deal to have been able to remain, comfort Zanthé with sweet words and, perhaps, make love to her again. But he dared not linger. She was lying on her side in a deep sleep; so he crept out from under the light coverlet he had pulled over them before going to sleep, dressed very quietly and left the room, locking the door behind him.

  Downstairs he drank the coffee that the servants had prepared for him, and ravenously demolished a plateful of sweet cakes. Then he called for Marbois and said to him, ‘I brought a lady home with me last night. She is up in the bedroom still asleep. Do not disturb her; but wait until she calls, then take her up anything she may ask for to break her fast. But on no account is she to be allowed to leave the bedroom or speak to the native servants. Keep her locked in, and I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ Buckling on his sword, he hurried round to headquarters.

  For an hour he stood about with several of the other aides-de-camp in the ante-chamber, then Bonaparte asked for him. After giving him one swift glance, his master proceeded to stuff some sheets of paper, covered with close writing, into a thick envelope and seal it while he said:

  ‘I have already sent a despatch to the Directors, describing the Battle of the Pyramids. This is another, reporting my occupation of Cairo. I have selected you to carry it because, as you speak Arabic, you should meet fewer impediments to speed in the towns and villages through which you must pass. I have, several times, already pointed out to Admiral Brueys the folly of risking an encounter with the British Fleet by remaining on the Egyptian coast, and have urged him to seek safety by returning to Toulon; or, at least, under the guns of Malta. I hope that by the time you reach Alexandria you will find that he has sailed. If so, he will have left several frigates there to carry despatches to France. In that case, give the despatch to the Captain of one of them and tell him to have it forwarded with all speed from the first port under French control that he can reach. Should Brueys still be loitering there, give it to him and tell him from me to delay no longer but be gone. Take any escort you desire and leave immediately.’

  ‘Mon Général, you may rely upon me,’ replied Roger promptly: Then he took the despatch, saluted smartly and, with rage in his heart, marched from the room.

  Having given orders for a horse for himself, and a half-troop of Guides as escort, to be got ready at once, he hurried back to his lodging, still almost exploding with pent-up fury. He had long since come to the conclusion that the embraces of women were like olives out of a bottle; the first could be got only with difficulty but the rest came easily. From the moment he had been woken he had begun to look forward with intense delight to the second night that he would spend with Zanthé. Now that this mission had been thrust upon him it would be more than a week before he could hope to possess her again.

&nb
sp; Arrived at the house he called loudly for Marbois and, when the young Provencal came hurrying from the back premises, Roger gave him his orders in a succession of swift, staccato sentences. ‘I have been ordered away on a mission. I expect to be away for at least a week. You will remain here and consider yourself as confined to barracks. In short, you will not leave the house. Have the servants buy anything the lady upstairs may ask for. But you will take up her meals yourself, and she is to be kept under lock and key. Neither the servants nor anyone else are to be allowed to communicate with her. If she asks you to take any message or letter for her you will accept it but not deliver it. Keep it until my return. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Monsieur le Colonel’ replied Marbois, drawing himself up. ‘I understand your wishes perfectly.’

  ‘Good,’ said Roger. Then, thrusting some money to cover expenses into the young soldier’s hand, he wheeled about and hurried back to headquarters.

  Even by taking the short cut from Rahmaniyeh across the desert, the journey from Cairo to Alexandria was the best part of a hundred and fifty miles. The roads were no more than tracks, the heat was almost unbearable and, as no remounts were available en route, the strength of the horses had to be husbanded. So, although Roger left Cairo on July 27th and made the best speed possible, it was not till the morning of August 1st that he reached Alexandria. He had rested his troop the previous night at Damanhûr, and had done half of the last thirty miles before daylight; so after five days of most exhausting travel he was very tired. Even so, he decided to accomplish his mission that day, sleep the night in Alexandria and set off on his return journey early the following morning.

  After a talk with that tough veteran General Kléber, to give him the latest news, and having learned that the Fleet had not yet sailed, Roger secured a new mount and, in spite of the midday heat, rode on to Aboukir. There he found the line of three-deckers at anchor in a long, shallow bay with rocks and an island at its far end. A boat took him off to the mighty L’Orient and, when the Officer of the Watch had sent his name to the Admiral, Brueys at once received him.

  Having handed over his despatch Roger gave the Admiral Bonaparte’s verbal message, upon which Brueys replied with a nod, ‘I am well aware of the General-in-Chief’s view of the matter. It was originally planned that I should take the Fleet into the harbour of Alexandria, where it would have been safe from attack; but it was found that the harbour mouth was too shallow for my largest ships to enter. He then urged me to make for Corfu. But what sort of a Frenchman would I have been to turn my back on him at such a time?

  ‘We all know that he has unshakable faith in his star; but had things gone wrong and our Army been defeated, its plight, marooned here in a strange land without either reinforcements or supplies, would have been too terrible to think upon. I could not possibly reconcile myself to any other course than to remain here, so that, did the worst happen, I might take off what remained of the Army and so save it from complete destruction.’

  Roger smiled. ‘Pray accept my compliments on your decision, Monsieur I’Amiral. It was in the highest traditions of your Service, and thousands of us soldiers might well owe our lives to you. But now the Mamelukes have been signally defeated, their remnants scattered and the General-in-Chief is firmly established in Cairo; the situation is very different.’

  ‘Indeed, yes; and I thank God for it. Yet we are desperately short of supplies, for we have been supplying General Kléber this past month instead of he us. We’ll still have to secure a sufficiency of food and water, but once that is done I’ll feel no scruples in setting sail for Malta. I see, though, Colonel, that you have obviously ridden hard and need rest and refreshment. It is just on our dinner hour. You must join us and afterwards I’ll have a cabin prepared for you so that you can spend the night on board.’

  ‘I thank you, Admiral,’ Roger replied. ‘I should be most happy to dine, but I am promised to sup with General Kléber and intend to start back for Cairo in the cool of the early morning.’

  By now his appearance was very different from the gallant figure he had cut in Paris. His fine uniform had become sadly stained during the campaign and after his recent journey he looked like a scarecrow. He was covered with dust from head to foot, his hair was a bush and his face begrimed. But a marine was detailed to brush his clothes while he had a good wash and a quarter of an hour later, when he was conducted to the spacious stern cabin, he looked fairly presentable.

  With the Admiral now were Commodore Casabianca, the Captain of L’Orient, and a number of other officers. When Roger had been presented to those he had not met on the voyage out they sat down at the big oval table to dine. During the early part of the meal Brueys and the others asked him many questions about the campaign, and listened eagerly to his accounts of the desert march, the Battle of the Pyramids and fabulous Cairo. But soon after two o’clock this pleasant party was suddenly interrupted. The door burst open and a young Lieutenant tumbled into the room, shouting:

  ‘Les Anglaisl Monsieur l’Amiral! Les Anglais!’ It then transpired that Nelson’s Fleet had just been sighted and was bearing down upon them.

  Chairs were thrust back and, with Brueys leading, they all rushed up on deck. There a hundred eyes were glued to telescopes. Roger followed the Admiral up to the poop and shaded his eyes with his hand to cut out the glare of the brilliant sunlight. Even without a glass he could make out, just above the distant horizon, the tips of more topmasts than he could count. It was no false alarm. After his ten-week fruitless search back and forth across the length and breadth of the Mediterranean Nelson had, at last, run the enemy to earth.

  Roger stood there cursing himself. If only he had started an hour earlier from Damanhûr that morning. If only he had ridden straight on to Aboukir, instead of stopping in Alexandria to talk with Kléber. If only he had refused Brueys’s invitation to dinner. Had he done any of those things he would be safely back on shore by now. But here he was, in the French flagship, with battle imminent; and, above all, a battle against his own countrymen. To ask to be put ashore now would look like rank cowardice. Yet he considered it. Perhaps it would not appear too bad if he said that it was imperative that he should rejoin the General-in-Chief with the least possible delay. But he was not taking back any despatch, so such an excuse for turning tail would not be looked on as valid. While his mind was still racked with awful indecision, Brueys settled the matter for him by saying:

  ‘Of course, Colonel, you will now wish to remain with us, to share our dangers and our glory. I shall be happy to count you as a military member of my personal Staff.’

  11

  The Battle of the Nile

  Rarely had Roger spent a more miserable afternoon. There had been no possible reply to Brueys other than, ‘I am honoured, Monsieur I’Amiral, and will do my utmost to be of service’. After that there was nothing for him, as a land-lubber, to do but await the battle, and he had a horror of such desperate encounters.

  It was not that he lacked courage. At Sherborne he had several times fought George Gunston, the bully of the school, although each time he knew he would get a licking. He had fought duels with sword and pistol, taken part in many affrays and would not have hesitated to fight anyone on any grounds that justified a resort to weapons. It was the terribly impersonal nature of battles that he hated: to be one of a group of men firing at and being fired at by another, without the faintest knowledge of the man you might wound or be wounded by; or to be cut in half by a bounding cannon ball, fired by an artilleryman whom you could not even see and who, if you had met him, might have proved to be the most charming fellow. Indeed although every Frenchman was technically his enemy, he counted many friends among them and there were several to whose rescue he would have gone at the peril of his life. He would have been the last man to suggest that his country should not go to war in defence of her liberty and rights, but that did not make the indiscriminate slaughter involved any the less horrifying to him.

  He had been lucky in the prese
nt campaign, as Bonaparte and his Staff had come under fire only during the brief skirmish at Chebreïss and had not even participated personally in the great Battle of the Pyramids. But now he was fated to spend several terrifying hours and, perhaps, meet his death in a head-on clash between some twenty thousand men, the majority of whom passionately hated each other’s country and were thirsting for one another’s blood.

  And it was not even as if it were to be a land battle. Roger would have defended a post to the last if he had been charged with doing so; but, as a general principle, he was a great believer in the old adage, ‘He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day’. In a conflict on land one could at least add to the chance of survival by using judgment about when to lie down and when to stand up. If things went badly it was generally possible, by keeping ones wits about one, to avoid getting mixed up with any mass of routed infantry that would attract the enemy’s artillery fire or pursuing cavalry. It was also possible to sham dead and lie in a ditch until the coming of night enabled one to creep away from the battlefield.

  But none of these ruses to save oneself was possible in a naval battle. A man was just as liable to be wounded or killed whether he stood up or lay down. And it was not only the enemy’s cannon balls that were to be feared. A falling mast or yard might shatter his head like an eggshell and, as the shot crashed through bulwarks and decks, great splinters of jagged wood, which could cause the most ghastly wounds, whizzed through the air to right, left and centre. Last but not least, if the ship he was in got the worst of the action there could be no galloping away from her, and it was pointless to lie in the scuppers pretending to be dead. If badly holed below the water-line she would sink, carrying him down with her to Davy Jones’s Locker, or, if she had been set on fire, blow up. In either case there would be no morning after.