Evil in a Mask

by Dennis Wheatley

  He had hardly done so when the Sultan appeared, escorted by two huge Nubian guards. Today he was again clad in easy garments suitable to the summer weather, but he wore a jewelled belt from which hung a scimitar, the hilt and sheath of which were worth a king’s ransom, and his turban was ablaze with precious gems.

  His manner was now aloof and dignified. As he took his seat on the broad divan, he did not even acknowledge the deep obeisance made by everyone present. At a sharp command from him the barge was cast off and the forty rowers sank their oars into the water. With long strokes in perfect rhythm, the boat sped along, rounded the curve of Pera and turned up the Bosphorus.

  Now that they were too distant from the shore for their faces to be seen distinctly, Selim relaxed a little and said to Aimée, ‘your ladies may talk if they wish,’ then greeted Roger kindly. Again the babble of girlish voices broke out, and one of the girls began to strum on a guitar.

  When they had progressed another half-mile Roger asked Aimée about Rumeli Hisar, to which they were going, as he had never heard of it.

  ‘It is an ancient castle,’ she replied. ‘There are two of them: one on either side of the Bosphorus where it is at its narrowest. Rumeli Hisar is the one in Europe and Anadolu Hisar in Asia. They were built to defend Constantinople from an attack by sea from the north. Although there is little danger of that in these days, garrisons are maintained in both. From time to time we make an expedition to one or the other, simply for the outing; and the views from the battlements are truly beautiful.’

  When they were opposite the castle, Roger saw that it was a formidable fortress surrounded by a wall that ran down on both sides of it to the water.

  Preparations had been made for the reception of the Imperial party. The Commander of the garrison, Evliyá Pasha, welcomed his sovereign with humble submission but evident pleasure. Scores of slaves then bore them all in litters up the steep hillside. Having admired the view from the battlements, they descended to the central courtyard. Awnings had been erected to shade it from the now blazing sun, and about it were set numerous divans with low tables.

  Refreshments were then served; but no champagne today. Although Aimée had seduced the Osmanli Princes into sharing her enjoyment of her favourite wine, they still did not dare ignore the prohibition of the Koran in public. Instead, there were refreshing sherbets and Hydromel—a honey-water, unfermented mead. With these were offered golden dishes of small, spiced buns, sweet cakes, rahat-lakoum, and a great variety of nuts and nougats. These proved to be the strange hors d’œuvres to a gargantuan meal: whole sturgeons on huge platters, lobsters first boiled in their shells, roast ducks coated with honey, peacock pies decorated with the heads and feathers of the birds, great dishes of venison crowned with antlers, pilaus, kebabs and ragouts; followed by a dozen different puddings, each a masterpiece of the chef’s artistry in the use of icing, spun sugar and crystallised fruit.

  When at last the feast was over, the Sultan withdrew to enjoy a siesta inside the castle, while the rest of them remained to chat idly or doze on the divans, through the heat of the afternoon. On Selim’s reappearance, everyone livened up. A dozen of the veiled odalisques swayed gracefully in an intricate dance, then others performed solo or in groups on instruments they had brought.

  Roger looked on with mingled boredom and interest. The music meant nothing to him, but he found it intriguing to watch the women. Except for Aimée and Fatima, every one of them was straining her talent to the utmost, and by sinuous movements endeavouring to attract Selim’s attention, in the hope that he might throw her the coveted handkerchief as the sign that he would summon her to his bed that night.

  But the Sultan remained impassive, and Roger had the instinctive feeling that all this apparently light-hearted gaiety was forced. A secret fear seemed to lurk beneath the laughter and a foreboding of dark days to come. His belief that trouble was brewing and that they were all aware of it was strengthened when, long before sundown, Selim abruptly ended the party and ordered a return to the barge.

  Silently they were borne in the litters down the hill and re-embarked. Almost in silence they were rowed back to the shore of Seraglio Point. As they landed, faint but menacing, they caught the sound of heavy spoons being beaten on the bottoms of kettles—that century-old indication that the Janissaries had become mutinous.

  9

  Crisis in the Seraglio

  As the sound coming from the massed buildings up on the hill reached their ears, everyone who had been on the Imperial pleasure party immediately fell silent. In the stillness of the late afternoon, the sinister drumming came to them louder and more threatening. Into Roger’s mind there flashed a picture of thousands of long-moustached, angry, armed men seated cross-legged: row upon row in the great Second Courtyard, beating rhythmically on their soup kettles with the long spoons that they habitually wore thrust through their turbans.

  Aimée was standing beside him. In a swift whisper he said to her, ‘You must return with me to the French Embassy. You will be safe there.’

  She shook her head. ‘No. My place is here. But it is as well that we returned early. As long as they keep drumming, they will harm no one. And this has often happened before. They will make some new demand. Selim will either have to accede to it or take strong measures to curb their insolence.’

  Having rendered thanks to the Sultan for his day’s entertainment, Roger made his adieux to Aimée and Fatima; then, as they went through the gate in the great wall up to the Seraglio, he was escorted by a eunuch along the shore until he could turn inland outside the wall, walk up to the tailor’s and change back into uniform.

  That night he could hardly sleep for worrying about what might be taking place in the Seraglio, but in the morning there came no news of trouble there, so General Gardane and his companions all donned their smartest uniforms and rode across the Galata Bridge. The sight of this cavalcade of foreign officers on horseback caused considerable excitement, and an ever-increasing crowd pushed and shoved on either side of them as they rode up through the narrow streets towards the Palace.

  When they reached the open space adjacent to the great mosque of Aya Sophia, Roger was relieved to see that preparations had been made for their reception, as that implied the state of things inside the Palace to be normal. A regiment of cavalry, with gleaming scimitars, was drawn up. Beyond them, on either side of the First Gate stood triple ranks of Albanian infantry armed with tall pikes with double axe heads. As the French approached, their arrival was announced by a fanfare from a score of trumpets. From the gate there emerged a gorgeously-clad Turk, wearing an enormous feathered head-dress. Behind him rode his orderly, holding aloft a wrought-iron standard from which dangled three tufts of horsehair, signifying the officer’s high rank. Salutes were exchanged and the ‘three tail’ Bashaw, with Ambassador Sebastiani on one side of him and General Gardane on the other, accompanied them through the First Courtyard between the massed ranks of hundreds of Janissaries, wearing helmets from which bird-of-paradise plumes curved down almost to their waists.

  According to custom, at the Second Gate they all dismounted. White eunuchs lumbered forward to act as horse-holders until their return; then, holding themselves very erect, they marched solemnly across the Second Court, in which were massed line after line of Selim’s newly-created bodyguard, the Nizam-i-jedad.

  As they approached the Gate of Felicity, Roger saw that the pile of skulls to the left of it had been increased by a dozen or so newly-severed bloody heads. Those, he had little doubt, were the heads of loyal retainers whom Selim had had to sacrifice to the Janissaries in order to keep them from open revolt. He was sorry for the Sultan, who seemed to be a pleasant, kindly man; but mentally condemned his weakness. About Aimée he was worried, because in her he had recognised a kindred spirit, and greatly admired her courage and intelligence as well as her beauty. He would have given much to be in a position to protect her from the danger that so clearly loomed over the present Imperial family; but saw no wa
y in which he might possibly do so.

  Beyond the Gate of Felicity they could see into the pavilion where there stood the wide, golden throne with its lustrous bands of flashing gems; but it was unoccupied. The sun was blazing down from a cloudless sky. Already the Frenchmen, in their tight-fitting uniforms, were sweating profusely. Five minutes passed, ten. They continued to stand rigidly to attention. The strain was terrible. Rivulets of perspiration were running down their faces, and General Gardane was praying that none of his officers would disgrace him by fainting.

  Roger was praying that this delay in the proceedings was due only to the Oriental habit of seeking to impress visitors by keeping them waiting; and not that, after all, Selim was dead or a prisoner, this show having been put on to conceal it and that shortly they would be informed that he had been taken suddenly ill, so could not receive them.

  Two minutes later, he was relieved of his fears. There came another blast of trumpets, then a herald cried in a loud voice:

  ‘Behold and tremble. Here cometh the Caliph of Islam; the Commander of the Faithful; the Padishah of Padishahs; the Lord of the Barbary States; the Shadow of Allah upon Earth.’

  With stately step, Selim emerged from between pearl-embroidered curtains at the back of the throne room. In spite of the heat, from his shoulders there hung to the ground an enormous ermine stole. His scimitar sheath and its hilt, his belt, breast and hands positively blazed with jewels. From an enormous diamond in the centre of his turban there rose a gently-waving aigrette. It was the largest jewel that Roger had ever seen. He had been told its history. It was known as the Spoon Diamond, because two children had found it on the seashore and had given it to a spoon-seller in exchange for two wooden spoons. The spoon-seller had sold it to a jeweller for a single piece of gold. The jeweller had had it cut and sold it to the then reigning Sultan for a fortune.

  The Sultan Selim was followed by a small, elderly, wizened man, wearing a dark robe and a flat turban the size of a small cartwheel—obviously the Grand Vizier. After him came a huge Negro in a tall, conical hat, whom Roger knew to be Son Altesse Noire.

  Selim took his place, cross-legged on the wide divan; the other two sat down on low stools on either side of him. Meanwhile everyone else present had gone down on their knees, the Turks touching the ground with their foreheads.

  The herald shouted, ‘The Descendant of the Prophet—blessed be his name—permits that you raise your eyes.’ Everyone looked up, but remained kneeling. The ‘three tail’ Bashaw who had been kneeling between Sebastiani and Gardane, took each of them by an arm, raised them to their feet and, as if supporting them lest they faint at the tremendous honour done them, led them forward through the Gate of Felicity to the step up to the throne.

  Again all three of them knelt. Selim, without a trace of animation on his features, extended the first finger of his right hand, upon which blazed an emerald the size of a pigeon’s egg? to Gardane. The General kissed it and said in Turkish:

  ‘Most gracious Majesty of divine descent, I humbly crave to present to you a letter from my illustrious master, and your faithful ally, the Emperor of the French.’

  Unsmiling, Selim made no reply as Gardane proffered the gem-studded casket containing Napoleon’s letter. Then, after a moment, with a gesture that almost conveyed contempt, Selim waved his heavily beringed hand in the direction of the Grand Vizier, and said, ‘My Minister will give consideration to this matter, and inform me upon it.’

  As Gardane handed the casket to the Grand Vizier, Selim uncrossed his legs, came to his feet and, raising his hand, said in a loud voice: ‘May Allah, the Merciful, the Compassionate—blessed be his name and that of his Prophet—have you all in His holy keeping.’ Then, without another glance at anyone, his black-bearded head held high, he strode out through the curtains at the back of the pavilion, followed by his Grand Vizier and the Kizler Agar.

  The troops came to their feet. Orders were shouted by their officers, and they presented arms as the French mission marched back through the Second Court, remounted their horses outside it, then at the First Gate took leave of the ‘three tail’ Bashaw. Limp and gasping from the heat, they recrossed the bridge of boats and, half an hour later, lay on their beds endeavouring to recover from the ordeal to which the audience with the Sultan had subjected them.

  That night, at dinner in the Embassy, Sebastiani said to Gardane: ‘General, I have remained on here only because I felt it my duty to accompany you on your presentation to the Sultan. I am positively haunted by the thought that my beloved Fanny’s death was due to my having brought her to this city of dirt and disease. In my wretched state I can no longer be of any assistance to you here, and I have learned that a ship is leaving for the Piraeus tomorrow; so I am sailing in her. I have made the necessary arrangements for my staff to carry on all diplomatic duties. It remains only for me to wish you success in your mission.’

  When they had condoled with him, he went on, ‘You must not be discouraged by the coldness of the Sultan’s reception. The aloofness he displayed is no more than tradition leads his people to expect from him. In private he is a very pleasant man, and he is highly intelligent. But you must not expect to receive any reply to the Emperor’s letter for some days. The probability is that one day next week you will be sent for to discuss it with his Ministers. Even then, no decision will be given. You may have to wait another week or more before you are again summoned to receive a formal answer.’

  During that afternoon Gardane had received a missive from Ibraham Pasha, the ‘three tail’ General who had conducted them into the presence that morning. It was an invitation for them to cross the Bosphorus with him next day and dine at his villa in the hills above Scutari.

  As Roger had received no summons from Aimée, he was glad of this opportunity to spend a day in the company of his brother officers; for he feared that if he went off on his own too often Gardane might begin to wonder what he was up to.

  Ibraham Pasha was a fat, jolly man. He spoke French fairly fluently and brought with him two other officers, both of whom had visited Paris in pre-Revolution days. The party crossed the Straits in a large barge and on the Asiatic side found grooms and horses waiting for them. They then rode through the town and, for about five miles, up a winding track that took them to the flat, grassy top of a mountain. From it there was a splendid view of the Turkish capital. The sun glinted on the domes and minarets of the many mosques in both Stamboul and Pera; and the blue waters below were dotted with the scores of vessels large and small sailing under a light wind along the three channels formed by the Bosphorus and the Golden Horn.

  Having rested there for a while, they rode down to the Pasha’s villa, which proved to be a small palace with a lovely garden. Like the majority of highly-placed or wealthy Turks, he observed the Koran’s prohibition against alcohol only in public; so the excellent meal he had provided for them was made doubly agreeable by a plentiful supply of very palatable Greek wine. In the cool of the evening, they returned to Pera, having had a thoroughly enjoyable time.

  The next day being the Mohammedan Sabbath, Roger did not go to the Palace, but on the Saturday afternoon he again presented himself. Aimée received him with obvious pleasure and he spent over two hours with her and the gazelle-like Fatima, who also asked him many questions about the countries in which he had travelled. With some amusement, he noticed that she could not keep her eyes off him, so he had obviously made a conquest. But charming as she was, and twenty years younger than Aimée, to his mind she was just a pretty girl and could not hold a candle to the radiant, golden beauty of her mistress.

  As he was taking his leave, Aimée told him that next day the Sultan intended to visit Kizel, an island in the Sea of Marmora, just outside the entrance to the Bosphorus, and invited him to accompany them; so he was able to look forward to another day in the company of this extraordinary and fascinating woman.

  Since the death of his wife the unhappy Sebastiani had refused all invitations and invited no-one to th
e Embassy; but on Gardane’s arrival he had felt it his duty to arrange a reception. So that night, in spite of the fact that the Ambassador had already left, the big salons of the Embassy were lit with hundreds of candles and an entertainment given for some two hundred guests. All the other foreign Ambassadors in Constantinople, with the senior members of their staffs, were present, and scores of important Turkish functionaries. Many of the latter were eager to return hospitality.’ So Gardane and his officers were assured of a pleasant time during the remainder of their stay in Constantinople. But Roger, wishing to keep himself free, politely declined such invitations as he was given, on the plea that he suffered from an intermittent fever and feared that for the next week or so a bout of it that he felt coming on would prevent him from keeping any engagements.

  On the Sunday morning, again dressed as a Greek merchant, he accompanied the Imperial party to Kizel. The day followed the pattern of that when they had gone up the Bosphorus to Rumeli Hisar, except that, instead of the entertainment being held in a grim old castle, they enjoyed the May sunshine on a broad terrace in front of a small palace.

  While they were on their way back, Selim told Roger that on the following day his Grand Vizier would receive the French mission, to discuss the Emperor Napoleon’s letter; but Roger: was concerned to see that the Sultan seemed more gloomy and ill at ease than ever. And when they landed on the shore below the Seraglio, the reason for his depression was made plain. Again his temporary absence from the Palace had provided an opportunity for the Janissaries to hold meetings and discuss their pretended grievances. For the second time there came to Roger’s ears that sinister sound of kettle-beating.