by Seth Hunter
Caterina regarded her stonily. ‘Doubtless,’ she said, ‘you are about to explain the meaning of this moving story.’
‘It has three meanings. One, that the person who puts you in the shit is not necessarily your enemy. Two, that the person who pulls you out of the shit is not necessarily your friend. And three?’ She shrugged. ‘It makes no difference either way. Inshallah – what will be, will be. It is a very Turkish story.’
‘I see. Well, thank you, Miriam, you are a little ray of sunshine today,’ Caterina congratulated her. ‘And why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I am about to do you a service and I want you to know that I cannot say for certain if it will put you in a better place or a worse.’
‘Ah. I understand. So what is this service that you are going to do for me – and does it involve pig shit in any way, or any other kind of shit?’
‘You remember the interested party of whom I told you?’ Miriam enquired.
Caterina agreed that she did, though Miriam had previously referred to him as ‘an admirer’. An ‘interested party’ promised less, in her expectations, than an ‘admirer’, but even so, it was good to know that someone was interested.
‘What of him?’ she asked.
Miriam dropped her voice even lower so that Caterina was obliged to lean forward to catch what she had to say. This was a not uncommon feature of life in the harem, where much of the dialogue was conducted in whispers, and the only raised voices were those of the wives and the children, but it did not make it any easier to understand what intelligence Miriam had to impart. In Caterina’s opinion, as a Venetian, the Tuscan dialect might almost have been designed to conceal one’s true meaning. No wonder it had been the language of Machiavelli. But for once Miriam was explicit.
‘He wishes to know if you have considered the possibility of escape.’
Caterina tried to read the expression in Miriam’s eyes but it was impossible. She could be a cat playing with a mouse. But it was equally impossible not to play along with her.
‘I might have,’ she replied warily, ‘when I first came here.’
‘And what did you conclude?’
‘That it would require outside assistance.’
‘And if such assistance were to be offered?’
‘Then it would be churlish to refuse it.’ But Caterina had had enough of this game. ‘Come to the point, Miriam,’ she urged her.
‘Very well. This gentleman is prepared to pay a considerable amount of money to contrive your escape.’
Caterina struggled to conceal her surprise at this inform ation. And as she considered it, she spotted an equally puzzling anomaly. ‘If he is prepared to pay such a sum to contrive my escape,’ she said, ‘why not to effect my release?’
Miriam sighed. ‘Perhaps because he does not consider your release to be a possibility.’
‘How so?’
‘Perhaps because he believes the Pasha will not part with you. Perhaps he has heard that the Pasha considers that you are beyond price.’
Caterina studied her carefully for a moment, but Miriam’s expression was remote. She recalled the shadowy figure in the chamber above the pool. The confessor figure behind his grille. If she had been more of an innocent she would have blushed.
‘And how is this escape to be contrived?’ she asked.
‘I will bring you further instruction,’ said Miriam, ‘on my next visit.’
‘And this “interested party” – you are not prepared to reveal who it is?’
‘I have not been given that authority.’
Caterina’s first thought was that it was Peter Lisle – Murad Reis, the Pasha’s great Admiral. Admirals seemed to be drawn to her that way. But now she was not so sure. It could, she supposed, be virtually anyone who had seen her at the Pasha’s Divan. This was alarming. She did not wish to exchange her present quarters for the life of a concubine in a Bedouin tent, or even the home of a Turkish official.
On the other hand, she did not wish to remain in the harem of al-Saraya al-Hamra for the rest of her life. Or even what she was still pleased to call her youth. Once she was out of here, anything was possible. But she was not going to go alone.
‘And what of my friend Louisa?’
Miriam frowned. ‘What of her?’
‘You do not expect me to leave her here.’
‘I do not expect anything. I am only the messenger.’
Caterina shook her head. ‘Then you must tell your “interested party” I am not going anywhere without her,’ she said.
Miriam did not look at all happy about this, but Caterina would not be moved.
‘I will let you know what he says when I return,’ Miriam conceded ungraciously.
She was back the very next day. This was a surprise to Caterina, who often did not see her for weeks. ‘It is agreed,’ she said. ‘You and your friend.’
‘So what must we do?’
‘As soon as it is dark, you must make your way to the room of the murdered Bey.’
Not for the first time Caterina suspected that she was the victim of some malicious game. Possibly devised by one of the wives, to humiliate her. Or worse.
‘The room of the murdered Bey …’ she repeated.
‘You know where that is?’
‘I know where it is. But why there?’
‘Because it is the only room in the seraglio that has windows which open onto the sea.’
For the first time, Caterina felt a stirring of excitement, but she tried not to show it in her face.
‘That is indeed an advantage,’ she said. ‘But it must be a hundred feet above the water.’
‘More like two hundred,’ agreed Miriam complacently.
‘So one would need a rope.’
‘One would certainly need something. But I imagine that has been thought of.’
Again, Caterina longed to slap her. Instead she said, ‘And what if the room is locked?’
‘Where there is a lock,’ said Miriam, ‘there is also a key.’ She reached into her voluminous black robes and pressed the object into Caterina’s palm.
Caterina quickly hid it within her own robes. She could feel her heart pounding. If this was a trick, she was already hooked. But there was at least one other consideration.
‘As soon as it is dark we are confined to our dormitory,’ she pointed out. ‘And one of the servants is set to guard us until daybreak.’
‘The servant has been taken care of,’ Miriam assured her.
Caterina stared hard at her. ‘All this could not be contrived without a great deal of money,’ she remarked.
Miriam permitted herself a small smile. ‘You think I would be involved in it,’ she said, ‘if it did not?’
‘Of course I do not trust her,’ Caterina admitted to Louisa when she confided the plan to her in the privacy of the hammam later that afternoon.
‘Then why do you even consider it?’
‘Because of a story she told me about a hunter and his dog.’
Caterina told Louisa the story. It did not appear to alleviate Lousia’s immediate concerns. ‘Is Miriam the hunter, or the bird, or the fox, or the heap of you-know-what?’ she enquired with a frown.
‘I think she is the hunter,’ said Caterina, ‘but it does not matter. The point is that she told me the story.’
‘I still do not understand.’
Caterina sighed. ‘I do not think she would tell me such a story if she meant to betray us,’ she said.
‘So you will go?’
‘Only if you will come with me.’
‘And if I say no … ?’
‘Then I will remain here with you – in the harem.’
Louisa considered a little more. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I will come with you.’
They retired to bed that night without taking off their clothes and lay awake, under the thin coverings, surreptitiously watch ing the servant in her chair by the door. Even by the light of the single candle set before her, they could see that she
was clearly having problems staying awake. He head kept nodding down towards her ample bosom and eventually she began to make gentle snoring noises.
Caterina turned her head and caught the eye of Louisa, in the bed next to her. Without saying a word they rose and crept towards the door. If any of the other hostages saw them they showed no sign of it, and the servant remained as if drugged, which no doubt she was.
Caterina eased the door open and they slid through the narrow gap into the corridor outside. A flight of stairs led up to the rooms where Lilla Kebierra and the Pasha’s wives slept. Moonlight filtered through the high windows. Caterina won dered if Miriam or her unknown accomplices had taken the precaution of drugging others besides the servant on sentry duty. Certainly there was no sign of life. They paused a moment before the door to what had once been Lilla Kebierra’s withdrawing room. They both knew the story. And knew that if they were found inside the room – the shrine to the murdered Bey – things would go very hard with them. But there were other, less rational reasons for them to be afraid of entering. Caterina said a silent prayer to the Virgin and opened the door.
The room was generously proportioned and luxuriously furnished. There were no lights burning, but moonlight poured through the large casement windows and they could see quite clearly. It might have been Caterina’s imagination but the room smelled of death.
She shook off her apprehension and made her way over to one of the windows. It was a little stiff but eventually she pushed it open – and there, far below her, was the sea. The wonderful, glorious sea, stretching away into the distance with the moonlight painting a wide-open path to the horizon. It was the first glimpse of the outside world Caterina had been afforded for more than six months, and for a few moments she luxuriated in it. She felt the breeze on her face and filled her lungs with air, and smelled the strong, pungent scent of salt water.
And almost on the horizon, directly in the path of the moon, she saw a ship.
It was a three-master with its sails furled. Caterina wondered if this was the ship Elizabetta had told her about, bringing the emissary from the American President. If that were the case, surely they would be wise to wait for the results of his negotiations? But then she remembered what Miriam had said. And it was all too believable that the Pasha wished to keep her here.
But now what were they to do? She leaned out of the window and looked down. There was a sheer drop to the rocks below. It was probably not the 200 feet Miriam had said it was, but it was far enough. She withdrew her head and looked around the room to see if there was any sign of a rope. There was not. Even if there had been, she doubted she would have enough strength in her arms to climb down it, even after all the swimming she had done. And certainly Louisa did not.
It must be a trap. Suddenly it seemed certain. That was why Miriam had told her story about the hunter and his dog. It was not a warning; it was an excuse. Even as the certainty grew, there was a small exclamation from Louisa. Caterina turned sharply and her heart leaped into her throat as she saw the dark figure framed in one of the windows. He was dressed entirely in black with a cloth wrapped around his head and face so that only his eyes were revealed, and they were almost as black as the night. Even as Caterina wondered how he could have got there, he dropped lightly into the room and she saw the rope dangling from above.
Louisa gave another cry and moved towards the door, but the figure was upon her in an instant, seizing her by the shoulders with one hand and placing the other over her mouth. Caterina took a step towards her, but then something made her turn towards the window again, and she saw an identical figure, poised on the sill. He leaped noiselessly into the room and raised an urgent hand to his lips. As Caterina paused, more paralysed by fear than by his instruction, he shrugged a pack off his shoulders and tugged what appeared to be a bundle of clothing from it. He threw it at Caterina’s feet and said something in a language she did not understand. Then he made a gesture as of pulling something over his head.
Caterina picked up the bundle. It consisted of a black shift or smock, a pair of loose-fitting pantaloons and a length of cloth that was clearly meant to be wound around her head like a turban. The other man had let go of Louisa and removed something similar from his own pack. Then they both turned their backs and stood there with folded arms, facing towards the window through which they had entered.
Caterina felt hysterical laughter bubbling in her throat. She suppressed it urgently and quickly exchanged her clothes for the ones on the floor. Louisa, after a moment’s hesitation, did the same. Then Caterina announced with a discreet cough that they were ready.
The two men moved swiftly towards them and began to fit them out with some kind of a harness which went over their shoulders and buckled at the waist. Then they pulled in the two ropes from the window and tied each of them to a ring in the leather.
They chose Caterina as the first to go, but she shook her head and pointed to Louisa. She did not want to risk leaving her behind. Poor Louisa looked terrified, but she allowed herself to be lifted over the windowsill and gently lowered down towards the distant sea. It seemed to take a very long time. Then one of the men nodded to Caterina.
She, too, was helped over the sill. She clung to the edge as she squirmed round to face the wall. She stared for a moment into the eyes of her rescuer – or assassin. Their expression was impenetrable. Then, with a great effort of will, she let go. And slowly, inch by inch, she was lowered down the wall. She used her hands and her feet to keep her face from grazing the stones, almost as if she was crawling down it. After a few moments, it began to feel exhilarating. She felt like laughing out loud. She even found the courage to look down. She could see the rocks, gleaming faintly in the moonlight, and the white line of surf beneath her feet. And so she descended, in a series of gentle jerks, until finally her feet touched solid rock.
She felt strong hands grasping her by the waist and unbuck ling the harness. And as she stepped free, she saw the boat. A small rowing boat with several more men, attired in the same black garb – and Louisa seated among them. Taking care not to slip on the slimy rocks, Caterina moved towards it.
A man detached himself from the shadows and extended his hand towards her. He did not wear a turban like the others, but he was hooded and his face was in shadow. Caterina took his hand and allowed him to help her aboard the boat where she joined Louisa in the stern. The two men who had rescued them were already swarming down the ropes – much quicker than they had lowered Caterina and Louisa – and as soon as the women were aboard, the crew cast off and began to pull for the open sea.
Caterina turned to the man who had helped her into the boat.
‘Grazie,’ she murmured in the Venetian dialect. ‘Grazie mille.’
To her surprise he answered her in almost the same tongue, but with a heavy and familiar accent.
‘It is my pleasure, Signora.’
‘Do I know you?’ she asked sharply. It was quite clear to her now, that this was not Peter Lisle.
‘We met only once,’ he said. ‘And I regret that the circum stances were not favourable to furthering our acquaintance.’
Then he raised his head to the moonlight and she saw him clearly for the first time. It was then she recognised the handsome but unwelcome features of the man who had been Bonaparte’s leading intelligence agent in Venice, Monsieur Xavier Naudé.
Chapter Fourteen
The Consul of the Seven Isles
‘Run out your guns!’
For all of his fifteen years in the service, this had presaged the sound that Nathan most loved to hear, at least aboard a ship-of-war – the sound of between ten and twenty heavy cannon being hauled up to the open gun ports. He had heard it likened to the deep-throated growling of a cage-full of wild beasts.
A romantic conceit no doubt, but far preferable to the comparison that now came to mind.
For unlike cannon, which were mounted on proper wheeled trucks of oak and iron, the Swallow’s brand-new carronades were bedded to
a fancy wooden slide with a groove down the middle to direct the recoil, and the sound they made as they were slid into position reminded him of a piece of chalk rasped across a blackboard at Charterhouse School in London, where he had spent two unhappy years studying the Classics and other subjects that appeared to be of no particular use to him, before his mother had been persuaded to let him join the Navy.
He watched from the quarterdeck rail as the twelve gun crews went through the motions of loading and firing. ‘Going through the motions’ was all they were able to do most days, for they had been here almost a month now, in the tranquil waters of the Bay of Tripoli, and if he had used powder and shot every time they worked the guns, he would soon have exhausted their meagre supplies.
Even so, Nathan insisted on some form of practice every day, if only to remind the crew they were aboard a ship-of-war and not a pleasure cruiser. And for all his prejudice against them, he had to admit the carronades had some advantage over cannon. They were about a third of the weight, calibre for calibre, and needed about half the amount of powder and half as many men to fire them. Nathan had apportioned their crews along more or less nationalistic lines. The Russians had four guns under the direct command of Lieutenant Belli; the Americans the next four; and the Sicilians the four that were left. After a month or so of practice they could fire three broadsides in less than five minutes, even using live ammunition. But of course, he had no means of knowing how they would perform in battle.
