The Sultan's Daughter

by Dennis Wheatley

  ‘I’ll not have it,’ Roger said firmly, ‘and by the door is not the only way out. There is the balcony overlooking the harbour.’

  ‘But it is thirty feet from the ground.’

  ‘No matter. We will make a rope from the coverlets of divans. I will lower you by it and follow after. Quick now. We have no time to lose. You can rely on old Gezubb, can you not? Go now and get her to help you. I’ll come down and join you the moment I have dressed.’

  Zanthé hesitated. ‘Do you … do you really think …?’

  ‘I do indeed.’ He gave her a quick kiss. ‘Go now, I beg you. Find me a weapon, then start making a rope. It should be thick and the knots secure, otherwise it may part and one of us may break our neck.’

  With sudden resolution she took her arms from around him and turned to the door. ‘So be it, then. In the worst event we can but die together. I pray Allah to protect us.’

  As soon as she had left him, Roger dressed. Over his eunuch’s robes he put on his worn travelling coat and, kicking aside the sandals he had worn during his captivity, drew on his top boots. Tiptoeing from his room and down the stairs he entered Zanthé’s apartments. Here and there a light had been left burning in one of the hanging lanterns and, knowing the rooms so well, he had no difficulty in finding his way to the main apartment. At the far end, to the right, there was a curtained archway that he knew led to Zanthé’s sleeping chamber. He had never been in it but now, thrusting aside the curtain, he walked through to her.

  The scent of jasmine hung heavily about it and it was furnished with the utmost luxury. But he hardly noticed that, To his relief he saw that Zanthé had already put on black robes similar to those in which he had first seen her and that she and her faithful negress were sitting side by side on the divan, making a rope from a hurriedly assembled assortment of silk materials.

  As he entered the room Zanthé stood up. She handed him a scimitar, a curved dagger and the money-belt that had been taken from him. He buckled on the belt and examined the weapons, to find that both were razor-sharp. Then he said, ‘We must keep our hands free, so can carry nothing with us. But take your jewels. Find a small bag to put them in, then tie it round your neck by a thick ribbon so that the bag is tight up under your left armpit.’

  While Zanthé did as he bade her and drew on a pair of soft leather boots, Gezubb finished the rope to his satisfaction. Together they carried it out on to the balcony. For several minutes he peered over in the semi-darkness until he felt certain that the coast was clear, then he lashed one end of the rope securely to a pillar and put the other end in a loop round Zanthé body below her arms. Gezubb, her eyes streaming with tears, knelt down and kissed her mistress’s feet, while Roger kissed Zanthé on the mouth and told her that she had nothing to fear. Then she threw her legs over the balustrade of the balcony. Roger and Gezubb took the strain on the knotted rope and lowered her to the ground. The rope slackened and she called up to them in a low voice that all was well. Giving the weeping negress a friendly pat on the shoulder, Roger grasped the rope firmly and went down it hand over hand.

  When he reached Zanthé, he peered anxiously into the shadows on either side, while old Gezubb pulled up the rope behind them so that it should not be discovered. The moon was up, but low in the sky; so he could not see far by its light. But this side of the great fortress palace had remained secure from attack and every available man was now needed to guard the garden side; so Roger was hoping that even if sentries normally patrolled the sealfront they would now have been withdrawn.

  The day’s battle had long since died down. Occasionally there came a solitary shot or a short burst of musketry as a sentry on one side or the other imagined that he saw enemies approaching out of the darkness. After a few moments Roger took Zanthé’s arm and said:

  ‘Come, beloved. We must now try to find a boat.’

  ‘A boat!’ she echoed in surprise. ‘Surely it would be rash to leave the harbour and try to make our way along the coast. We might be captured by the British.’

  Now that an escape from Djezzar’s palace had been forced upon Roger, the fact that the French had not yet taken Acre had, during the past hour, caused him to change his plans completely. As matters stood it would be difficult and dangerous to attempt to reach the French, whereas it should prove comparatively easy to get taken aboard a British ship. Drawing her forward, he said:

  ‘That is just what I intend. We must place ourselves under the protection of Sir Sidney Smith as soon as possible.’

  ‘But,’ she objected, ‘as a Frenchman they will make you a prisoner-of-war.’

  There was no time to start explaining to her the complicated ramifications of the life he had long been leading; so he replied quickly, ‘No matter. The English are chivalrous people. They will do me no harm, and placing ourselves in their hands is by far the simplest way of saving you from Djezzar.’

  ‘No, no! You are mistaken.’ she cried, pulling back. ‘The English are Djezzar’s allies. When he learns that I have fled he will be berserk with rage and have a search made for me everywhere. It would be impossible to conceal the fact that I have taken refuge on a British ship. The news that a Turkish lady had been brought aboard by a French Colonel would swiftly spread. Djezzar would demand my return and the English Admiral would have to hand me over.’

  ‘Dearest, he would not,’ Roger replied. ‘Sir Sidney Smith is a most chivalrous man. When he hears that a blackguard like Djezzar means to force you to marry him you may be sure he will give you his protection.’

  ‘You are wrong,’ she argued breathlessly. ‘In time of war great Captains cannot afford to allow their actions to be governed by sentiment. Recall what happened in Cairo. The French then regarded the Turks as their allies. To appease the Viceroy, General Bonaparte returned me to him and dismissed you, although you were one of his favourite officers. In this case you would not have even that much in your favour. You’d be no more than an enemy officer who had given himself up. How could the Admiral refuse to send back to Djezzar a woman whom he has the Sultan’s permission to marry?’

  This was a possibility that had not occurred to Roger during the brief time since he had made his change of plan. The influence he could exert on Sir Sidney was very much greater than Zanthé knew. Even so, would it be sufficient to protect her? The British Commander must place the interests of his country before all else and, in this case, they were that, in order to inflict as much damage as possible on the French, Acre must be held for as long as human endeavours could hold it. A bitter quarrel with Djezzar might have disastrous results. The Pasha had a reputation not only for cruelty but also for treachery. Rather than sacrifice more men in desperate assaults, Bonaparte might be willing to negotiate with him and give him generous terms to surrender the city. Sir Sidney could not be expected to risk that for the sake of a woman.

  As these thoughts were running through Roger’s mind, Zanthé clung to his arm and implored him, ‘Please! Please, my love, let us go to the French. Only with them will I be safe from Djezzar. If you take me to the English our escape will be in vain. You will have sacrificed yourself for me by becoming their prisoner and within two days at most I shall be in Djezzar’s seraglio and at his mercy.’

  ‘You are right, my sweet,’ Roger admitted reluctantly, ‘but it means exposing ourselves to much greater danger. We needs must pass through the battle zone before we can consider ourselves safe, and risk being shot at by the sentries on both sides.’

  ‘I am not frightened. You are so brave that I know you will get me through.’

  Roger knew only too well that this was no question of bravery. He could only exercise the utmost caution and hope for luck. But now that he was again in danger his mind had become extraordinarily alert, and he knew that he could rely on those faculties of wariness, keen sight, swift decision and violent action which in the past had served him so well.

  Placing her on his left so that his sword-arm was free, he said, ‘We must walk forward at a natural pace.
If you see anyone ahead of us just press my arm but do not speak. If anyone challenges us say that you are a midwife and that I am escorting you to a birth. Should we be attacked do not run away unless I tell you to.’

  Heading towards the northern side of the city, they advanced for some two hundred yards alongside the wall of the palace until the wharf on their other side ended. In the narrow street beyond it two men stood talking, but they took no notice of Roger and Zanthé as they passed. A hundred yards further on they came upon the first rubble they had encountered. It was the remains of a house that had collapsed when a cannon ball had carried away one of the main beams. Scrambling over it, they entered a small square. Half a hundred soldiers of the garrison were lying or squatting there. Most of them were utterly exhausted after the day’s fighting. It was necessary to pick a way among them, but only one or two wakeful ones muttered at them as they did so. On the far side of the square they entered another street, almost choked with rubble which in some places was fifteen feet high.

  In a whisper Zanthé suggested trying another route, but Roger whispered back, ‘No, where the way is fairly clear it is certain there will be squads of soldiers posted ready to resist a surprise night attack. No surprise could be achieved through a blocked street like this; so we are much less likely to run into an officer who’ll demand to know where we’re going, and there won’t be any women about to give birth out here.’

  Laboriously they climbed the mountain of fallen brick and charred woodwork, then stumbled across its uneven surface for some three hundred yards. Now and then they slipped or tripped and twice ran into rotting bodies. The stench was terrible and the rats, which had multiplied enormously during the siege, peered at them boldly with little, fiery eyes, Roger helped Zanthé as best he could but, as they could see only vaguely where they were putting their feet, both of them fell several times. At length they scrambled down into an open space with trees in it. It must once have been a garden. There, with bruised knees and scratched hands, they sat down for some minutes to get back their breath.

  When they went on again they moved cautiously from tree to tree, pausing in the deeper shadow cast by each to listen and peer forward. From near the far edge of the trees they could see against the night sky a huge ruin and, to the left of it, a row of broken arches. Zanthé whispered, ‘That must be all that is left of the great north-east tower; beyond it is the Roman aqueduct.’

  A moment later they caught the sound of footsteps, so quickly crouched down behind a nearby bush. It proved to be a squad of troops emerging from one of the unblocked entrances to the city. Their boots kicking against fallen stones and bricks, they marched across to the right of the ruined tower. When they had passed, Roger and Zanthé set off towards the aqueduct. To reach it they had to cross another patch of rubble; but it was lighter there than it had been between the remains of houses in the wrecked street, so they got through it more easily. Beyond it rose the aqueduct.

  Cautiously approaching the nearest arch, Roger looked through it. At the far end, leaning against the wall, barely a dozen feet away, stood a figure. It was a sentry, but he was keeping watch for anyone approaching the city and his back was turned. With Zanthé behind him Roger tiptoed forward. The thought of killing a man taken unawares had always been repugnant to him, so he reversed his scimitar. At that moment the sentry sensed that there was someone behind him and half turned. Before he could do more Roger struck him hard on the head with the thick, back edge of the curved blade.

  The man fell to his knees, but the thickness of his turban had saved him from being knocked senseless. He opened his mouth and there issued from it the beginnings of a shout. Springing past Roger with the swiftness of a panther, Zanthé buried a dagger in the man’s neck, reducing his shout to a horrible gurgle.

  It shook Roger to see a lovely girl of seventeen kill a man so ruthlessly, but he knew that standards were different in the East and life was held cheap. Moreover he realised that she had probably saved them from capture, so he commended her warmly for her swiftness and courage.

  A hundred yards beyond the aqueduct lay the great wall, but that sector of it had been battered to pieces by Bonaparte’s artillery. It was now no more than a long, high mound, composed of the earth in its interior and chunks of the brickwork that had been its casing. Again they climbed until they were fifty feet above ground-level. As they neared the top of the ridge Roger went down on his hands and knees and whispered to Zanthé to be extra cautious, as he expected there would be an outer line of sentries posted there. In that he proved mistaken and they soon learned the reason.

  Having reached the crest they lay side by side for some minutes, looking about them and listening intently, then Roger said, ‘I think the coast is clear, so we’ll go forward.’ Not realising that she would be exposing herself against the skyline, Zanthé incautiously stood up. Next minute a series of flashes stabbed the darkness, both in front of and behind them, and the stillness was shattered by the reports of half a dozen muskets. In an instant Roger pulled her down and the bullets whizzed and spattered harmlessly to either side of them, but it was a nasty moment.

  Being shot at both from front and rear had made it obvious that they were now in no man’s land. Roger drew Zanthé back a few yards down the city side of the slope, then they crawled along until they had put some distance between themselves and the place where she had been fired at Still on their stomachs they wriggled over the ridge and down the far side. As they advanced, the stench of dead bodies increased to nausea-point, and near the bottom of the slope they suddenly slid into a deep ditch that was half full of corpses.

  Giving a shudder, Zanthé gulped, ‘Allah defend us; this is horrible! Help me out of here, dear one, or I’ll be sick.’

  Quickly, Roger gave her a hand to scramble up over the far side of the ditch. As he did so, he whispered, ‘Crawl twenty yards, then wait for me. This is just what I was hoping to come upon. I may be quite a time, but don’t worry.’ Then he let himself slide back on to the pile of dead bodies.

  The light was only just sufficient for him to make them out individually. They had evidently been killed in a recent assault, as none of them was in a state of actual decay. There were about thirty of them, mostly French, with a few tur-baned Muslims among them. Mainly by feel, he formed an idea of their size and it did not take him long to find a body of roughly his own build; but it was no easy matter to get the dead man’s uniform from his stiff corpse. To do so, Roger had to use his dagger and cut the cloth in several places. However, he felt that by now Bonaparte’s troops had been reduced to such a ragged state that the hacked condition of the uniform would not cause comment. Taking off his own worn travelling coat, he struggled into the tail-coat and breeches of the soldier. He then cut off that part of the hem of the travelling coat in which Bonaparte’s despatches had for many months lain rolled up and put the piece of cloth containing them in his pocket.

  It was a more difficult matter to find a uniform suitable for Zanthé. Holding his nose now and then to prevent himself from vomiting, he continued to search until he came upon a shortish man who, although much broader than Zanthé, looked about her height. Having got the uniform off this second man, he hunted round till he found two muskets, two bandoliers and a grenadier’s shako.

  This repulsive labour took him the best part of an hour, but he found Zanthé waiting in patient confidence that he would rejoin her as soon as he could. Loath as she was to exchange her silken robe for the bloodstained uniform, she made no protest about so doing. He put one of the bandoliers over her shoulders and concealed her long hair by tucking it up under the shako, but he kept both muskets to carry himself.

  Giving her a kiss, he told her that he now felt their chances of getting into the French lines without being fired upon were much better and, standing up, they walked forward. As they advanced, Roger began to curse loudly in French, using phrases which would give the impression to anyone who heard him that he had lost his way in the darkness.

 
; When they had covered a few hundred yards a voice to their right and a little to their rear suddenly shouted, ‘Who are you? And where the hell d’you think you’re going?’

  Halting, Roger gave one of the muskets to Zanthé and shouted back, ‘We’re lost. Can you tell us the way to Company Headquarters?’

  A tall figure, wearing the same type of shako as Zanthé’s, emerged out of the darkness. With the rasping scorn of a typical Sergeant-of-the-line, he bellowed at them, ‘Company Headquarters, indeed! Why not ask the way to the “Little Corporal’s” headquarters and tell me, he’s invited you to breakfast?’ Jerking a thumb over his shoulder, he added, ‘’Cos I’m new to the Company, don’t think you can put it over on me. Get back to the rest and give a hand with them sandbags, or I’ll have the hide off the two of you.’

  In the face of this threat Roger swiftly decided that, should he declare himself to be one of Bonaparte’s aides-de-camp, he would not be believed and would land himself in a packet of trouble. Adopting the only alternative he set off, with Zanthé beside him, in the direction the Sergeant had indicated, hoping that they would soon be rid of him. But he turned and followed them until they came upon a platoon of troops, some of whom were filling sandbags and others carrying off the filled sacks through the semi-darkness.

  Stacking their muskets with others, they picked up two spades, intending to fill some of the sacks; but the men who had this easier job cursed them and pushed them aside, so they were forced to join the chain of sack carriers. The stronger men were carrying a sack apiece, but a number had been so weakened by lack of nourishing rations that they could manage only a sack between two. This enabled Roger and Zanthé to work together but, even so, it was fortunate that she was a strong-limbed girl, as she had to support one end of the sack and each one seemed to weigh half a ton.