Evil in a Mask (25 page)

‘Yes. Why not? At times General Sebastiani used to join us, and His Majesty thinks well of
M. le Chevalier
. So, too, does my son, and it will make a pleasant change for us to have a visitor in our family circle.' She then told Roger to come to the Palace at eight o'clock.

Roger spent Wednesday with three of his brother officers and their Turkish attendants, exploring parts of the city they had not so far seen. As infidels, they were naturally debarred from entering any of the magnificent mosques; but they strolled round the great oblong stadium where, in Byzantine times, the chariot races had been held; descended underground to see the vast, many-columned cistern that Constantine the Great had constructed to supply his people with water during the times of siege, and roamed for an hour or two along the inside of the miles-long battlemented wall.

On the Thursday evening, when Roger was conducted through the Second Court of the Palace, he saw by the lingering twilight that many of the Janissaries were sitting about in little groups, quietly smoking their narghiles or talking earnestly in low tones; but none of them took any notice of him.

In Aimée's apartment he found Selim, Mahmoud and Fatima. They were already drinking the champagne of which they were so fond and, when he had made his salaams, Fatima poured him a glass. The Sultan then began to speak of the Dewan that had been held the previous Thursday and told Roger frankly that he was still undecided what course to take. Russia was Turkey's hereditary enemy and, moreover, he would have liked to give his ally, the Emperor Napoleon, such help as he could. But to find troops for an offensive while several of his own provinces were in rebellion presented a difficult problem.

‘Sire,' Roger replied. ‘I am a loyal servant of the Emperor, but since you have honoured me with your friendship, I cannot forbear to quote the old saying, “A wise man puts out the fire in his own house before he goes to assist his neighbour in putting out the fire in his.” '

Aimée nodded her golden head. ‘That is sound advice. But we are not here to talk statecraft. Let us put such matters out of our minds for a while and enjoy ourselves. Tell His Majesty, as you told me the other day, how, when you were a young man in St. Petersburg and that old
rouée
, Catherine
the Great, took a fancy to you, you succeeded in avoiding going to bed with her.'

Roger told the story and they laughed a lot. Encouraged by them, he told others of tight corners out of which he had managed to wriggle. About nine o'clock, Yussif appeared and announced that, if it pleased His Majesty, dinner could be served. Then they adjourned to another room. As was the case throughout the whole of Aimée's apartments, there were no divans here, but a fine, satinwood table set with Sevres china, lace mats from Malines, and Venetian glass. The chairs were of tulip wood, and their seats flower designs in
petit point
worked, as she told Roger, by herself.

The meal, too, showed no trace of Turkish influence and it was clear that Aimée's personal chef was well versed in the French cookery books for which she had sent. As Roger drank with each course in turn Montrâchet Chambertin and a rich Sauterne, he thought how blessed this Oriental potentate was to be able to retire from his burdensome duties of State to these utterly different surroundings, created by a French lady of superb beauty and indomitable will.

A richly-crusted soufflé was about to be served when sounds of commotion came from the next room. A moment later the door burst open and
Son Altesse Noire
came staggering in to them. His face was grey, his eyes bulging. Without ceremony he cried:

‘Majesty! We are lost! The Janissaries are in revolt. They have freed Prince Mustapha and his mother from the cage. Even now they are proclaiming the Prince as Sultan. They will be here at any moment. This means death to us all.'

Everyone at the table sprang to their feet. The eunuch who had been about to hand round the soufflé dropped it and fled. Selim remained outwardly calm, but his voice was hoarse as he said:

‘I will go out and call this rabble to order.'

‘No!' Aimée cried, seizing his arm. ‘No. They would hack you to pieces.'

Prince Mahmoud's fine eyes had lost their mild look.
Thrusting out his bearded chin, he shouted, ‘A scimitar. Find me a scimitar so that I may die fighting.'

‘No weapons will help us,' said Roger sharply. ‘While we still have the chance, we must escape. Come! Which way do we go?'

The Chief of the Black Eunuchs shook his head. ‘There is no way, Monsieur. All three courts are swarming with Janissaries. A handful of loyal men are holding the passage that leads to the Sultan Validé's courtyard. But very soon they must be overcome.'

Aimée clasped her hands, lifted her eyes to heaven and exclaimed, ‘Holy Virgin, protect us.'

Selim shrugged. ‘Prayer is now useless, dear
Naksh
. As it is written in the Koran, “the fate of every man is bound about his brow”. We are trapped, and it is our fate that we should die here.'

It was the 29th May. Ever since the 20th, the day on which they had gone on the expedition to Rumeli Hisar and returned to hear the Janissaries beating on their kettles, the fear that really serious trouble was brewing in the Seraglio had never been far from Roger's mind.

During the sixteen days that the French mission had been in Constantinople, he had spent by far the greater part of his time either with a few of his brother officers or, accompanied only by Achmet, wandering about the city. As a secret agent of long standing, it had become second nature to him to acquire all the information he could about how the people in whichever country he was in regarded their government. His Turkish having become fluent, he had been able to chat with men of all conditions, and by inference rather than definite expressions of opinion, he had become convinced of two things. The Sultan was unpopular with only the rich, who stood to lose by his reforms, but people of every class united in lamenting his weakness in dealing with the Janissaries.

They had become entirely lawless and terrorised the city. In full daylight they held up and demanded money from people in the streets; bands of them raided and pillaged shops; they abducted and raped women; they even broke into harems. Yet no action was taken against them. It followed that if their revolt succeeded, Constantinople would become the scene of wholesale massacre and looting.

Faced with this immediate and unexpected crisis, it flashed into Roger's mind that if only he could get away he might yet save the situation. Once out of the Palace it would not be difficult to reach the French Embassy. Gardane was an intelligent
and resolute man. The staffs of the other Embassies could be counted on to help. Urgent messages could be sent to the barracks of other troops who were jealous of the Janissaries' privileges, and to the Mullahs who, from their minarets, would rouse the people. Their smouldering hatred would burst into flame. In their tens of thousands they would attack the Palace, overwhelm the lawless brigands from whom they had suffered for so long and, perhaps, even save Aimée, the Sultan and her son.

But how to get away? Instantly a possibility came to him. Thrusting
Son Altesse Noire
aside, he ran from the room into Aimée's library. The others followed, to find him crouched in the wide hearth, looking up the big chimney. Few of the buildings in the Seraglio were more than one storey in height. Fifteen feet above him he could see stars in the clear heaven. Swinging round, he cried:

‘I'm going up! I'll get away across the roofs and bring help.'

‘May the Prophet bless you!' exclaimed Prince Mahmoud. ‘But we must come, too, or we'll be murdered long before you can return to us.'

‘You're right,' Roger replied. ‘But we'll need a rope to haul the women up. Where can we find one?' Hastily he glanced round, but could see nothing suitable.

Next moment the Prince muttered, ‘Use this,' and began rapidly unwinding his turban. Roger realised, in the minute or more it took to do this that, sweet-natured and artistic though Mahmoud might be, he was a far more resolute man than Selim, who was standing silent, paler than ever and with drooping shoulders.

Grabbing the end of the long, thick swathe of muslin, Roger tied it to his belt. As the other end came free, the Black Eunuch seized it and was about to knot it round the Sultan's waist.

‘Stop!' snapped Roger. Then, forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, he added, ‘In England there is an unwritten law, “Women and children first”.' Snatching the
turban from the eunuch, he lashed it swiftly under Aimée's arms above her breasts.

Already they could hear the sound of clashing scimitars and screams of wounded men, coming from the Sultan Validé's courtyard, so none of them noticed the
faux pas
Roger had made by implying admiration for the English.

Diving into the chimney, he braced his back, feet and elbows against the soot-blackened walls. To wriggle his way up was far harder than he had expected. Although the chimney was only fifteen feet in height, by the time he was half-way up he feared he would never reach the top; but it gradually narrowed, lessening the strain on his shoulders and ankles. Thrusting up his hands, he managed to grasp the rim of the opening overhead. One final heave, and his head was clear of the chimney rim. For a moment he hung there, panting, then scrambled out on to the roof.

Up there, the sound of shots, wild war-cries and fighting came much more clearly to him. The whole vast Topkapi Palace, usually so unnaturally silent, was in a state of pandemonium. Swiftly he turned, shouted down the chimney and began to haul upon the turban rope. Aimée had lost no time in following him into the wide hearth below, but as he took the strain, his heart suddenly misgave him.

She was not a tall woman and had retained the beautifully-moulded, girlish figure that had been one of her many attractions, so he would have guessed her weight to be not more than eight stone; but she seemed to weigh half a ton. Now he cursed himself for his impetuosity. He should have had Prince Mahmoud or the big Negro climb up after him, then the two of them could, without great difficulty, have hauled the others up.

But it was too late to think of that now. Any moment Yussif and the other loyal eunuchs who were defending the doorway giving on to the Court might be overcome and the murderous Janissaries burst into the library below.

Roger heaved on the thick, muslin rope. It lifted Aimée a foot or so. He heaved again and gained another foot. But the rope was cutting into his hands so painfully that he could
have screamed. He now knew that he would never be able to pull her up the whole fifteen feet this way. But, whatever happened to the others, somehow he had got to get Aimée out.

After a moment's agonising thought, he let the rope slide back until her feet again took her own weight. Turning his back to the chimney he drew the slack rope over his right shoulder, then twisted it round both his wrists. Clasping his hands together in front of him, he took the strain again and, head down, threw his whole weight forward. The rope cut fiercely into his shoulder and only by swiftly clutching at his belt was he able to keep his wrists from flying up into his face.

With the sweat streaming from him, he fought his way forward step by step across the roof. At the very moment he felt he could endure the strain no longer, there came a cry behind him, and the fierce pressure of the rope on his shoulder eased a little. He held his position for another half-minute, then the rope went slack. Turning, he saw with a gasp of triumph that Aimée was out on the roof.

By the time he staggered to her, she had undone her end of the rope and was lowering it. Pushing past her, he shouted down the chimney, ‘Prince Mahmoud next. And he must climb as … as I did. Use the rope only … only as a help. I … I haven't the strength left to pull Fatima up.'

A minute later the rope became taut, but only for a moment. As it eased, Roger took in the slack; Aimée too, grasped it, and each time Mahmoud levered himself a foot higher, they pulled on it to assist him in his climb. Once the strong young Prince was up on the roof, the three of them were not hard put to it to hoist Fatima. Hauling up Selim needed greater effort, although there were four of them on the rope; but the Kizler Aga's ascent called for no effort. Like Mahmoud, he worked his way up himself.

For all of them it had been a terrible experience; for those who came last the dread that they might yet be caught and murdered, for Aimeé the fear that, although she had reached temporary safety, her son and dear friend Selim might not; for Roger the awful thought that he might have to abandon
Aimée with whom he had not allowed himself to fall in love, but might so easily have done had she been a woman of lesser station. His hands and wrists were lacerated, his right shoulder felt as though it had been seared by a red-hot iron. But he knew that, as yet, there could be no letting up. They were still almost in the centre of the vast Palace, now in the hands of thousands of ruthless enemies. Unless they could escape unseen from it, they would die that night.

Fortunately, there was no moon, but the starlight was bright enough for them to see one another and their surroundings. As they stood there in a little group, they took in for the first time their changed appearance. They had sat down to supper clean and elegantly clad. They now looked like so many scarecrows: their hair and turbans dishevelled, their fine garments torn and begrimed, their hands and faces black with soot.

Roger looked anxiously about him. In every direction there were scores of small domes crowning individual rooms. The squat, square turret above the Hall of the Dewan, the three-storey block that housed the ladies of the harem, and the tall chimneys of the ten kitchens were the only structures that stood out prominently against the skyline.

‘Our best hope is a boat,' he said sharply. ‘Which is the least dangerous way to the shore?'