As they crossed the garden, the night air still held the scent of the hundreds of hyacinths planted there. Aimée began to cry at the thought that she would never see it again. In that little soot-begrimed party, there was no longer a Padishah of Padishahs, a Sultan Validé, white man or black. They were just a group of human beings endeavouring to save their lives. Without hesitation Roger put his arm about her shoulders and strove to comfort her.
Where the garden ended there was a low wall. They scrambled over it and made their way down the slope through an orchard and large, well-tended patches of vegetables. At the bottom of the hill they came face to face with the high crenellated wall. To attempt to go out through the gate that led to the summer pavilions and the boat-houses was far too great a risk, for the guards there would be Janissaries. Even if, owing to the rebellion, they had left their posts it was certain that before leaving they would have locked the gate.
‘What now?’ asked Mahmoud in an unhappy voice. ‘I see no way in which we can possibly scale the wall. So we are trapped here. Our only chance is to hide until morning, then hope that in some way Allah will succour us.’
‘No, Prince,’ Roger replied. ‘My good friend Marshal Lannes, and General Oudinot with his Grenadiers, have scaled taller walls than this, and without scaling ladders. Your turban has served us well, but we have others: mine, that of Son Altesse Noire and, if need be, His Imperial Majesty’s.’
As he spoke he began to unwind his own turban; the Kizler Aga followed suit. Knotting them together, Roger made at one end a large loop, then weighted the ellipse of the loop with stones as large as cricket balls. Standing well back from the wall, he threw the loop up. The stones clanked on the battlements, but the rope fell back. Again and again he tried to lodge the loop over one of the crenellations, without success, until his arm ached with throwing. The big Negro took over. At his third attempt the loop caught. They pulled upon the rope and it held firmly.
Having got his breath back, the muscles of his arms hurting terribly from the strain he had put upon them, Roger climbed the rope and managed to bestride the battlements. With comparative ease the Kizler Aga swarmed up to sit beside him. Prince Mahmoud went up next. They then drew up the rope and let it down on the far side of the wall. Mahmoud lowered himself by it and stood ready to receive the others. In turn, Aimée, Fatima and Selim were pulled up, then lowered to the Prince. Roger and the Black Eunuch followed. Crossing the wall had taken them three-quarters of an hour, but they were now outside the precincts of the Palace. No-one had seen them and the shore was deserted.
Keeping close under the shadow of the wall, they crept along it, fearful that at any moment one of the guards who normally kept watch by the pavilions on the shore would suddenly appear and challenge them.
When they reached the boat-houses they found them, too, deserted. At the piers in front of them several boats lay bobbing gently in the tide. Roger chose one with three thwarts, as the most suitable for the party, because he felt sure that Mahmoud, who was proving a man after his own heart, would be willing to row, and the Kizler Aga could be counted on.
Aimée, Fatima and Selim settled themselves in the stern, the latter taking the single oar protruding from it by which the boat could be steered. He had not spoken since they had emerged from the chimney; but now he asked miserably, ‘Whither shall we go?’
‘Across to Pera,’ Roger replied. ‘The safest place for Your Majesty to seek sanctuary is in the French Embassy.’
‘I do not agree,’ said the Prince. ‘It has no defences and only a handful of officers who could resist an attack upon it. Immediately it became known that we are there, the Janissaries will come over and demand our heads.’
‘Where then?’ asked Roger.
‘To Rumeli Hisar. It is commanded by a Pasha known to be loyal to us, and garrisoned by reliable troops. There we shall be in a position to make terms.’
Roger hesitated for a moment. ‘I had in mind that if we could get to the French Embassy General Gardane would at once take steps to rouse the mobs of the city against the Janissaries. They are so hated that thousands of people would take up arms to destroy them.’
Mahmoud shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But I doubt it. The Janissaries are well armed and well disciplined. The odds are that they would cut to ribbons any ill-directed mob sent against them. At Rumeli our heads will at least remain on our shoulders for another few days.’
‘So be it, Prince,’ Roger replied. ‘You are a better judge than I of this terrible situation. But Rumeli Hisar is a far cry up the Bosphorus, and in our present state I doubt if we’ll come to it before morning.’
So it proved. Fortunately, Son Altesse Noire and Prince Mahmoud were both strong men, as Roger’s hands had been so lacerated during his first attempts to haul Aimée up the chimney that, although he stuck it out, he could do little more than dip his oars in time with the others.
When they came up to Rumeli Hisar, first light was breaking and they were all almost dropping with fatigue. As they pulled in to the shore, a sleepy sentry roused himself to challenge them. ‘Go fetch Evilyá Pasha at once,’ shouted Mahmoud.
The sentry stared at the boatload of people, soot-begrimed, tattered and, except for Selim, bareheaded. Standing up, the Prince added, ‘Tell the Pasha that His Imperial Majesty requires his presence urgently.’
Suddenly the sentry caught sight of the splendid turban, bedecked with jewels and surmounted by an aigrette, worn by the figure slumped in the stern of the boat. His eyes started from his head and his mouth gaped open. Without another word he turned and ran up the steep slope.
Ten minutes later Evilyá Pasha came swiftly padding down it in slippers and a hastily-donned robe. Briefly the Prince told him what had occurred. Salaaming profoundly to the Sultan, the Pasha expressed his distress and unshaken loyalty. Then the officers to whom he had sent to be roused with orders to follow him down, helped the refugees from the boat and up to the castle.
There the Pasha’s chief wife welcomed Aimée and Fatima and took them to rooms that had been hastily prepared for them in the harem. Before they left the men, Aimée turned to Roger and said:
‘Monsieur le Chevalier, it is to you we owe our lives; a debt we shall never be able to repay.’
Selim then took from round his neck a ribbon from which depended a magnificent star and crescent jewel which he wore on all occasions. Passing the ribbon over Roger’s head, he said with tears in his eyes:
‘My good friend, you are well named “le brave Breuc”. While I am still Sultan it is my happiness to decorate you with the highest honour that it is within the power of the ruler of the Turkish Empire to bestow.’
Somehow Roger managed to stammer his thanks; but the pain in his hands and shoulder were agonising, and he was utterly exhausted. Later, his memory of what happened after that was only a vague knowledge that several people had undressed him, put soothing ointment on his wounds, bandaged them and got him between the cool sheets on a comfortable divan.
It was not until late in the afternoon that he awoke. Seated cross-legged on the floor opposite him he saw a Turkish manservant. As their eyes met, the man smiled, got up and left the room. Ten minutes later, he returned with coffee, rolls shaped like small quoits, sweet cakes and a large dish of fruit. After his exertions of the previous night, Roger felt hungry and would have welcomed an English breakfast, with a choice of half a dozen hot dishes, and York ham to follow, washed down with good Bordeaux; but he made do as well as he could on the rolls, spread with roseleaf jam, and fruit.
When he had done, the servant held out for him a robe of Turkish towelling, then took him along to the Hamam. To him this was no new experience, as he had frequently availed himself of the Turkish baths when in Egypt. More than once he had felt ashamed by the fact that, as a whole, Orientals kept themselves cleaner than Europeans, the majority of whom had a bath only two or three times a year—and even most of the upper classes only once a week—whereas in Cairo and Constantinople the public baths were
used daily by the greater part of the population. This difference in custom had even led, right up to the preceding reign, to high-caste Turks finding Europeans so smelly that they had insisted on all Ambassadors being steam-bathed in the Seraglio before they were presented to the Sultan.
After sitting in the hot room for half an hour, while the perspiration trickled off him, Roger took a dip in the pool, then he was shaved and submitted to a massage that miraculously restored the vigour to his still-tired muscles. Back in his room, he found that fresh clothes of fine texture had been laid out for him, and that a doctor was waiting there to treat his wounds. They were only superficial and the salve applied early that morning had already done wonders.
When he had dressed, he was taken down to a small, arcaded court. A fountain was playing in the centre and seated on divans, smoking hookahs, were the Prince, the Kizler Aga and the Pasha.
Having greeted him warmly and thanked him again for all he had done the previous night, Mahmoud told him that the news was not good, but no worse than was to be expected. All the loyal men in the Nizam-i-jedad had been murdered, and many of the eunuchs. Bands of Janissaries were now roaming the city, seeking out and killing, wherever they found them, the higher officials who were known to have favoured the reforms introduced by Selim. Every shop was shut and every house barred. Many of them were being broken into, but large numbers of the wealthier class had had the sense to collect such valuables as they could carry and hurry to take sanctuary in the mosques. Meanwhile, Prince Mustapha had had himself proclaimed Sultan.
‘Do you think the majority of the people will accept him?’ Roger asked.
‘I fear so. You see, he will have the support of many men in high places who resent His Majesty Selim’s reforms and he is the Heir Apparent.’
Roger frowned. ‘I was not aware of that.’
‘It is so. Unlike the European monarchies, with us the crown does not descend from father to son, but to the next eldest living Osmanli Prince, and Mustapha was born before I was. He is the son of Aimée’s husband, the Sultan Abdul-Hamid by an older Kadin.’
‘What of the Army,’ Roger enquired. ‘Surely a great part of it must hate the Janissaries for the idle, privileged life they lead, while other troops are fighting? There must be many regiments that would support the Sultan Selim in an attempt to regain his throne.’
It was the Pasha who answered. ‘You are right, Effendi. But most of them are either fighting the Russians, or engaged in putting down rebellions in the Balkan provinces. I have sent messengers to such Generals as I believe to be loyal; but there is no body of troops within many weeks’ march of Constantinople sufficiently strong to defeat the Janissaries.’
‘For how long, Pasha, do you think you can hold out here?’
The Pasha made a wry face. ‘A week perhaps, but not longer. My men are Bulgars, and can be relied on. But the castle is not provisioned for a siege. We should be starved out.’
‘Then we must leave here,’ Roger declared promptly. ‘With an escort of your men, the Imperial party should be able to reach some more distant place where they will be safer. Still better, they could set off in disguise as a small caravan of perhaps a dozen people.’
The Kizler Aga shook his dark head. ‘It is too late for that, Effendi. By noon Prince Mustapha had learned where my Imperial Master has taken refuge. Outside the gates of the castle there are now many hundred Janissaries, and on the water side scores more in several galleys. We are already besieged.’
‘Are you expecting them to attack?’
‘Not yet,’ the Prince replied. ‘For the moment Prince Mustapha must have his hands full in the city. He will probably come out here tomorrow and demand our surrender.’
‘I’ll not surrender,’ growled the Pasha. ‘Not unless I receive a direct order to do so from my Imperial Master.’
The Prince smiled at him. ‘Good friend, you will receive no such order from the Sultan. He is in a sad state of depression, blaming himself now for having rejected my advice to take sterner measures with the Janissaries, and so bringing us all to this terrible pass. But the Sultan Validé has persuaded him to give me full authority to take all such decisions as are necessary. He will remain in his room; so at least we can die fighting.’
The evening that followed was one of the most unhappy that Roger had ever spent. It was not that he was afraid to die; as he thought he almost certainly would the next day or the day after, when the castle was attacked. He could not bear the thought of the fate that would befall the courageous and beautiful Aimée when she fell into Prince Mustapha’s hands. She was only a little over forty and still infinitely more desirable than any Turkish beauty. Mustapha was, he had gathered, no fool. And no-one but a fool would kill such a pearl among women; but he would take his revenge by humiliating her. Since she had held the rank of Sultan Validé he could not possibly turn her over to his Janissaries. But he could give her in marriage as a junior wife to one of the most repulsive Pashas who had supported him.
To take his mind off Aimée Roger thought, as he often did, of his beloved Georgina. She was the great love of his life, and no other woman could ever supplant her. Time and again he had pressed her to marry him, but she had proved adamant in her refusal. She always maintained that it was only because they were separated, often for many months and sometimes even for years, by his work as a secret agent on the Continent, that the flame of their desire for each other had never flickered, and that each time they did come together for a while it was with the same wild, joyous, utterly satisfying passion that they had known in their teens.
He fell asleep still thinking of her, and she came to him in a dream. So strong was the bond between them that there had been several occasions when he had been in acute danger and her voice had come clearly to him, telling what to do to save himself.
Now he could see her bending over him. He felt her soft kiss linger on his lips. Then she said, ‘Roger, dear heart. Tomorrow you will receive an invitation. Take it, and you will have no regrets.’
When he woke in the morning, he remembered his dream as clearly as though she had come to his room in the flesh. The dream puzzled him greatly, because in his present situation the last thing he expected to receive was an invitation. Then he put the matter from his mind, had breakfast, spent half an hour in the Hamam and dressed.
It was shortly before midday that a herald emerged from the camp the Janissaries had made opposite the main gate of the castle, and demanded its submission in the name of the Sultan Mustapha IV.
The Pasha replied from the battlements above the great gate that he knew no Sultan other than His Imperial Majesty Selim III; and that in his name he would defend Rumeli Hisar to the death against all comers.
The herald retired, then returned ten minutes later, to state that His Imperial Master Mustapha IV desired to preserve his subjects from unnecessary bloodshed. So would the Pasha or some responsible person come out and parley with him?
Prince Mahmoud was standing on the steps that led up to the battlements above the great gate, and he said to the Pasha, ‘Tell the man that, provided none of Prince Mustapha’s troops are within four hundred yards of the gate when it is opened, I will do so.’
The Pasha pleaded with him to be allowed to go himself, insisting that if the Prince went out alone, he would certainly be assassinated. But Mahmoud refused to be moved, and said, ‘Your cannon are already trained upon the Janissaries’ encampment. Give orders to your men that, should they see me shot down, they are to fire. Such a volley might well kill Mustapha and so save our Sultan. You know the ancient prophecy that, when the last Prince of the House of Osmanli dies, the end of the Turkish Empire will follow. If both Mustapha and I are dead, they will not dare harm His Imperial Majesty.’
‘So be it then, my Prince,’ the Pasha submitted. Turning, he shouted the terms to the herald, who agreed them; then he and Mahmoud descended the stone staircase together and ordered the great gate to be unbarred.
Roger and the Kizle
r Aga had been standing nearby on the battlements, so they had heard the whole transaction. Now they watched the Janissaries withdraw and Prince Mahmoud leave the castle. A small group of men came forward to meet him, but did not approach beyond the stipulated limit.
The gunners held their lighted matches ready to apply them to the touch-holes of the cannons should the Prince be attacked. But, after a few minutes, it seemed that the rebels, at least for the present, had no intention of harming him. At a distance of a quarter of a mile it was not possible to see the expressions of the faces of the group or guess from their gestures how their discussion was going; but it seemed to be interminable.
At least half an hour went by before Mahmoud bowed to the others, turned and started back towards the castle. Roger, the Pasha and the Kizler Aga were all so intensely anxious to hear what had passed that they went out to meet him.
He greeted them with a smile, and said, ‘The lives of all of us are safe. I have made a pact with Prince Mustapha. I refused his demand that our Lord Selim should publicly abdicate; but agreed that we should become his prisoners in the Seraglio. We are to be treated with respect, and enjoy the same comforts and semi-liberty as he and his mother have been allowed during the past few years. Tomorrow morning we are to return to the Seraglio in one of the Imperial barges, with a fitting escort and the homage due to Princes of the House of Osmanli.’
Roger frowned. ‘In the circumstances, the terms are generous. Prince, and I’d congratulate you were I certain that Mustapha would honour them. But dare you trust him? Once he has you all in his power, isn’t it highly probable that he will murder you?’
Mahmoud shook his head. ‘Nay. He swore it upon the Koran before witnesses. Did he break his word, the Mullahs would denounce him from every pulpit in Islam, and his body would be thrown to the dogs by his own household troops for having disgraced the supreme office of Caliph.’
Evil in a Mask Page 20