The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  Roger would have given practically anything to be able to spend the next half-hour simply talking to Zanthé and endeavouring to persuade her that he had acted as he had only because of his intense love for her. But he dare not delay reporting back to the General-in-Chief.

  Followed by the remaining five men, who escorted the Pasha between them, he made his way back to headquarters. There he learned that the General-in-Chief had wisely decided not to expose his troops to street fighting, during which they would be shot at from roof-tops, and that all French forces were being withdrawn to the Citadel.

  Three-quarters of an hour later he reported Sulkowsky’s death to his master, and informed him that he had brought in the Turkish acting Viceroy as a hostage. Bonaparte had been greatly attached to his Polish aide-de-camp; so he was very distressed at Roger’s news. But regarding the Pasha, he said:

  ‘You have anticipated my wishes, Breuc. These Turkish officials have shown themselves to be untrustworthy; so I have already issued orders for the arrest of the principal ones among them. But we must not treat them harshly, and must still endeavour to win their goodwill, otherwise the Sultan might declare against us and that would make the establishment of a colony here far more difficult.’

  For two days, from the heights above Cairo, Bonaparte rained cannon balls and grape-shot upon the city. His principal target was the Great Mosque which was believed to be the headquarters of the rebellion. This cannonade completely quelled the ill-organised attempt to dispossess the conquerors. Forty-eight hours after the trouble had started the streets were silent and the French began to infiltrate back, unopposed, to the barracks and palaces they had previously occupied.

  Accompanied by a squad of dismounted Guides, Roger hastened down to his house and found all well there. The small garrison had suffered only from a shortage of food. Having sent some of them out to procure supplies, Roger went upstairs, unlocked the door of the room in which Zanthé had been confined and confronted her.

  She was sitting on his bed, her eyes cast down. Throwing himself on his knees before her, he seized her hands and cried, ‘My beautiful Zanthé, I deplore these past two days in which you must have suffered much discomfort. It was through no fault of mine. Now that the trouble is over I swear to you that I will leave nothing undone that will make you happy.’

  After a moment, her eyes still cast down, she replied, ‘I am your captive. You are strong and virile. If you force me again I shall not be able to resist you. But how can a woman feel love for any man who behaves in that way towards her? For what you did to me, I hate you. And should you repeat it, given the least chance I will kill you.’

  Her bitter words dissipated all Roger’s hopes that, having once submitted to him, she would accept his further love-making without resistance and, perhaps, with pleasure. He realised now that his only hope of softening her heart was to woo her, if need be for several weeks. He had no hesitation in deciding to do so, because he felt that such a glorious prize would be well worth any restraint he would have to put upon himself.

  With his usual practicability, he stood up and said with a wry smile, ‘Well, at least we will dine together and discuss the matter further.’ Then, realising that there was nothing fit to eat in the house, he left her, collected Marbois and went out with him to see what delicacies could be procured in the market, which had opened again after being closed for two days.

  Only a limited number of stalls displayed goods for sale, and those they had to offer were, for the most part, very indifferent. Roger spent over an hour hunting round before he found a fresh-killed duck, zucchini, green almonds, lemon curd and a rose-scented Rahat Lacoum, that he felt were adequate for setting before Zanthé at their first meal together.

  When he arrived back at the house, he was very surprised to find Duroc in the little fountain-court and Zanthé down there with him, sitting cross-legged on one of the piles of cushions. With an unhappy look on his sanctimonious face, the Aide-de-Camp-in-Chief drew Roger aside and said in a low voice:

  ‘Breuc, how could you be such a fool? I warned you when we saw this woman at the landing stage not to interfere with her. The Pasha complained that you had carried off a lady from his seraglio, and I felt sure that I would find her here. In spite of the treachery of these Turks you must know that our master is still anxious to propritiate them. He is furious with you. I have been ordered to escort the lady back to the Pasha’s palace and place you under close arrest.’

  14

  Pastures New

  Roger stared aghast at Duroc. It took nearly a minute before he realised, as seen through other eyes, the enormity of the thing he had done. His passion for Zanthé had blinded him to all else than the craving to have her again in his keeping. He had ignored the fact that she had recently become the concubine, or pierhaps even a junior wife, of the most important Turkish official south of Constantinople. He had ignored this in spite of Bonaparte’s declaration that everything possible must be done to keep the Turks from openly siding with France’s enemies.

  Had Zanthé still been the lone widow of a merchant he might possibly have justified taking her under his protection, to save her from molestation while the city was in a state of riot. But he had left a garrison in the Pasha’s palace to protect the other women in the seraglio; so he had no excuse for having removed her from it

  His brief conversation with her an hour earlier flashed back into his mind. She had then made plain her intense resentment at his having carried her off; so it was not even as though he could plead that a mutual passion had made her a willing accomplice in his act and that he had rescued her from a situation that she detested. There was nothing for it but to pay the price for the rashness into which his obsession had led him.

  Drawing a sharp breath he unhooked his sword, handed it to Duroc with a bow and said, ‘Monsieur, I surrender myself your prisoner.’

  Duroc returned his bow, took the sword and replied, ‘Monsieur, 1 have to escort this lady back to the Pasha’s palace. Be good enough to proceed to headquarters and await my return there.’

  Roger gave one quick look at Zanthé. Her yashmak masked her mouth, but her tawny eyes held a mocking smile. He made her a formal bow and said, ‘Madame, my love for you is the only excuse that I can offer for such inconvenience as I have caused you. It seems that I am about to pay heavily for it; but let me assure you that I am unrepentant. Given another chance, I would do the same again for an hour in your company.’

  The smile left her eyes and astonishment took its place, but she made no reply. Turning on his heel, he marched out of the house.

  Half an hour later Duroc joined him at their old headquarters and there condoled with him on the result of his folly. It then transpired that the General-in-Chief had expressed no wish to see him immediately; so they went upstairs together. Roger was allotted an attic room in the palace where, being under close arrest, he was to remain until sent for. Duroc said that he would arrange for Marbois to bring Roger’s things round and look after him. His meals would be sent up from the mess. Duroc also promised that later in the day he would bring up some books; he then left Roger to his extremely distressing reflections.

  To start with, he had lost his beautiful Zanthé—this time, as it seemed, for good. That was bad enough in all conscience, but very far from being the end of the matter. If a Turkish gallant had carried her off the outraged Pasha would, no doubt, have insisted on having his head brought to him on a charger; so if Bonaparte wished to retain this Oriental potentate’s goodwill he would have to demonstrate publicly his extreme displeasure by taking some really drastic action against the culprit.

  Roger did not think it likely that his master would go to the length of having him put in prison. On the other hand, it seemed improbable that open arrest for a month or more would be thought sufficient to meet the case. In Italy, in one of his ungovernable rages, Bonaparte had, on the spot, reduced a General to the ranks because he had allowed the Austrians to push him out of the castle of Castiglione;
so Roger did think it possible that he might shortly find himself drilling with a musket and being cursed by a Sergeant-Major. In any case, it seemed certain that he would be deprived of his aide-de-campship, which would put an end to the prospects, so enthusiastically envisaged by Admiral Nelson, of further serving his country by passing on some vital piece of information about Bonaparte’s future intentions.

  Later in the morning Marbois arrived with the prisoner’s personal belongings and in the afternoon Duroc brought him half a dozen books; but his mind was too agitated by dismal speculations about his future for him to do more than glance at them. Evening came without his being sent for to face the wrathful Corsican, then ensued a night of troubled sleep. By midday next day still no summons had come; so he sent Marbois round to the house to fetch some of his wine and some cushions with which to make the attic somewhat more comfortable. Then, by hard concentration, he succeeded in interesting himself in the Abbé Prevost’s romance Manon Lescaut.

  It proved as well that he had books and wine to solace his solitary confinement, for it was not until October 27th, the fourth day after his arrest, that Duroc came for him. Having escorted him downstairs and announced him to the General-in-Chief, the aide-de-camp hastily withdrew to avoid becoming involved in the expected tempest.

  Bonaparte was pacing up and down the big room, his hands behind his back. Halting suddenly, he swung round. His dark eyes flashed angrily and he demanded:

  ‘Well, what have you to say for yourself?’

  ‘Say!’ Roger cried indignantly. ‘Mon Dieu, I have a lot to say! You do some strange things at times, but I have always stood up for you. I tell people that you are a genius—not an ordinary man, but one inspired by God—sent to us to restore the glory of France. I say that they must make allowances for your follies and take no notice of the small, silly things you sometimes do, because your mind is always occupied by far greater matters that will alter the fate of nations. And what is my reward? What is my reward? To have my property stolen and to be shut up for four days like a criminal. I will not be——’

  The thin little Corsican, his enormously broad jaw thrust out, stared at him in amazement then shouted, ‘Stop. What in thunder do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ Roger stormed, ‘that I will not be treated like a pickpocket. Because your mind is set on conquering half the world you cannot with impunity jump on the faces of your loyal servants. I, for one, will serve you no longer. You already have my sword. Take my rank badges and my sash. I have no further use for them. I will become a waiter or a brothel-keeper, since you seem to think I am fit for naught else. Do with me what you please! You have the power! Abuse it as you will! But understand one thing. After the scurvy way in which you have treated me I am finished with you.’

  For a moment Bonaparte was silent, then he said harshly, ‘Have you gone mad? I have the right to demand an explanation from you, yet you have the insolence to pretend that it is you who are aggrieved. A clever move, but one which will not serve you.’

  ‘I did not expect it to. You are too wrapped up in your own daydreams to care what happens to others.’

  ‘That is untrue! I am the father of my soldiers.’

  ‘Of your soldiers, yes. But not of your friends. Why, you had not even the decency to visit poor Junot in hospital after he had had himself half killed out of love for you.’

  ‘Discipline must be maintained.’

  ‘And who maintained it for you except loyal friends like Junot and myself—we who are prepared to draw our swords even upon our seniors when they openly proclaim you to be a madman?’

  ‘Enough! Enough! All this is beside the point. In defiance of every instruction I have issued you violated the seraglio of the acting Viceroy and made off with one of his women.’

  ‘And why not? She was not his, but mine. I had bought and paid for her.’

  ‘You had bought her from him? I do not believe it. To lie in this fashion can only make your case worse.’

  ‘Do not judge others by yourself,’ Roger snapped back. ‘You needs must—

  ‘How dare you!’ roared the Corsican, his normally pale face turning dead white. ‘I’ll not be spoken to like this! I … I … I’ll …’ He choked and looked as though he were about to have an apoplectic fit.

  ‘You needs must lie for political reasons,’ cut in Roger, finishing the sentence he had begun. ‘But I do not have to. As for saying to you what I have—do not think that because others lack the courage to tell you the truth about yourself that applies also to me. You cannot do worse than have me shot, and I’ll say to you what I damn well please.’

  He knew that he was taking a desperate gamble; but he had had four days in which to decide on the way in which he would meet his master’s accusations. Tame acknowledgement of his guilt could have led only to dismissal and punishment. In the past he had defied people greater than Bonaparte had yet become, and he felt that his one hope of saving himself lay in using the Corsican’s own favourite tactics of violent, relentless attack.

  Taking a quick breath he hurried on, ‘I tell you I bought this woman. The fact is that I came upon her in the street, the night after we entered Cairo, surrounded by half a dozen soldiers. They were about to drag her into a house and rape her. To save her, I bought her from them for a hundred louis.’

  Still trembling with fury, Bonaparte stared at him and muttered, ‘Is this the truth? Do you swear it?’

  ‘Indeed I do, and should you still doubt me you have only to have her questioned. It was my misfortune that the very next day you sent me with a despatch to Alexandria. On my return I found that the owner of the house in which I had installed myself had emptied it of its furniture and taken her away with him. The Provost Marshal has been hunting her on my behalf for weeks, but without success. Then, four days ago, while the revolt was at its height, I seized the Pasha for you as a hostage. In his palace I found her. She was mine by right of purchase; so naturally I took her away with me. What else would you expect me to have done?’

  By one of the extraordinarily swift changes of mood to which Bonaparte was subject he had, while Roger was speaking, become quite calm. Resuming his pacing up and down, he said:

  ‘Breuc, I have a considerable esteem for you, because you are as brave as any of my beaux sabreurs, yet, unlike most of them, you have the wit and temerity to defend yourself when accused. But this will not do. Had you paid ten thousand gold louis for this woman that would still give you no title to her. She is no slave-girl but a lady of high birth and breeding.’

  Roger refrained from contradicting this assertion. Secretly, he was now greatly elated at his success in having manoeuvred his master from pronouncing summary judgment on him and having persuaded him to a discussion of his case. With a shrug he said:

  ‘She is beautiful enough to be a Sultan’s daughter, but she has no claim to nobility. She is half French and told me herself that she had recently lost her husband, who was no more than a merchant.’

  Bonaparte swung round upon him. ‘Then she deliberately deceived you, probably because she feared that if you knew the truth you would have demanded a great sum for her ransom. She is no merchant’s relict, but a widow of the Commander of the Turkish garrison. He was killed in the battle at Embabeh.’

  It was Roger’s turn to stare. After a moment he said, ‘I understand now, mon Général, why you look on my action with such displeasure. I naturally supposed that the Pasha had taken her as one of his concubines; so I felt that my right to her, as her previous owner, was better than his. But if, as you say, she is of noble birth I take it he must have made her one of his wives.’

  ‘She is neither the Pasha’s wife nor his concubine,’ Bonaparte replied testily. ‘It is simply that, having been widowed and with the city in a state of unrest, she took refuge in the Pasha’s seraglio; just as a woman of our own race, in similar circumstances, might seek refuge in our Embassy. But that makes what you have done no less reprehensible. You, one of my personal aides-de-camp, forcibly ab
ducted this woman and all Cairo knows about it.’

  ‘It distresses me greatly to have caused you embarrassment in this way,’ Roger said with apparent contrition.

  ‘Apologies are not enough.’ Bonaparte’s voice became harsh again. ‘In Muslim eyes it is a most heinous crime to break into a seraglio. It is not to be wondered at that the old Pasha is calling for your blood. Apart from that, you have given me cause to deal severely with you. You seem to think you had a right to carry off this woman. Had she in fact been only a merchant’s wife—a woman of no particular account—whom, by some trick, you could have lured to a rendezvous and so secured her again, I would not have held it against you. But by openly using violence you showed a flagrant disregard for my expressed wishes regarding our treatment of the population. As matters are, I’ve no alternative other than to make a public example of you.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘If your prestige will be enhanced by so doing I willingly accept anything you may decree.’

  ‘In the circumstances I cannot possibly retain you as one of my aides-de-camp.’

  ‘I understand that, mon General. All the same I find it regrettable; because I think you will agree that in that capacity I have been of some value to you, whereas I can be of little use in any other.’

  ‘You mean that you have never served as an officer in a regiment or even been trained as a soldier.’

  ‘Exactly. I know next to nothing of military evolutions or procedure. Doubtless after a few months I would have picked up enough to be capable of commanding a Company. But what then? I’d still not be worth as much to you as hundreds of others who have had years of experience.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realise that,’ Bonaparte replied impatiently, ‘and in other ways you are a man of exceptional abilities. I find it difficult to contain my anger at the thought that through your folly I shall have to deprive myself of your services. Yet I see no alternative.’