Murder and Revolution

by Evelyn Weiss

  “I’ve heard about your Bible. Saint Paul, he was from Tarsus, you know? ‘I am a citizen of no mean city’ – that’s what Saint Paul said.”

  “My friend was Armenian.”

  “There’s some good shops run by the Armenians in Tarsus. Nice stuff, you know – clothes, carpets, furniture.”

  I don’t tell him that all those shops will be gone now, but I smile at him. As I do, I hear a different voice; sharply edged.

  “What are you saying to that prisoner, guard?”

  The man salutes nervously. “Sir – ah…”

  “Get back to your duties, or you’ll find yourself in a cell.”

  Our cell door opens, and Kılıç Pasha walks in.

  Yuri and the professor were both snoozing: now all three of us are shocked awake, staring at our visitor. His shoes gleam like quicksilver, his uniform is freshly pressed; he looks immaculate.

  “I heard about your recapture. I also heard that you caused the deaths of two Turkish soldiers in an armored car. But you also did something far worse. You disrupted the Ottoman Empire’s solution to the Armenian problem.”

  Professor Axelson returns Kılıç’s stare, replying boldly.

  “You do realise, Kılıç Pasha, that me and my friends are nationals of three different countries – and that not one of those countries is actually at war with Turkey? Our appeals for release have been sent through to our own nations’ ambassadors.”

  “Sabotage is a crime, no matter who commits it.” Kılıç looks into my eyes. “And on the subject of ambassadors – we used to have a United States ambassador in Istanbul. He was a thorn in our side. In fact he was a bit like you, Agnes – he constantly tried to interfere in the Armenian issue. Now we have expelled him, and severed all diplomatic ties with the United States. We will not listen to any appeals for mercy from America. And as for Russia, Captain Sirko – we have heard nothing at all from them in respect of your case.”

  He pauses: I see the contempt in his eyes as he goes on. “So – neither of you will be released, not even if the war ends tomorrow. You have committed capital crimes, and will be dealt with accordingly.”

  His gaze turns back to Axelson. “However, in your case, your letter was passed on to the Swedish ambassador, and we have received an initial response.” He calls to a guard. “Get this man out of the cell. Bring him to me: I need to interrogate him at length.”

  It’s night. Through the barred window, I see stars: the Milky Way’s glittering trail across a sky of blue velvet.

  “Yuri?”

  “Yes, Agnes?”

  “Hold me.”

  There’s a noise in the corridor. Voices are shouting. Our cell door bursts open.

  “Both prisoners are to come with us.”

  I recognise all the guards in this prison. But I don’t know these three men who stand in the doorway of our cell. They shine a flashlight that glares in our eyes: the light glistens on the barrels of rifles. We stand, quickly – but despite that, one of them pushes the muzzle of his gun right into Yuri’s stomach. I hear the catch click, and I stare, frozen in shock.

  “Move!”

  I attempt to talk. “Please –”

  A hand slaps my face, so hard that I see stars. Then I feel my hands being pulled behind me, and a rope is twisted around them. But someone is shouting at the soldier. “Tighter!”

  I feel burning: the rope is tearing the skin off my wrists. My face is up against the wall, but I hear blows behind me. They are hitting and kicking Yuri.

  I feel the cold metal of a gun barrel on the back of my neck. “This time, you’ll move.” I walk, pushed along by the rifle. With every step I feel the muzzle poke into the base of my skull.

  Yuri and I are forced along a stone corridor, out into the courtyard of the fortress. Above, the vast bowl of stars is still shining down, glimmering on the cobbles below our feet. In the gloom, I hear a familiar voice.

  “Miss Agnes! Captain Sirko!”

  “Shut up. Now all three of you, get in the truck.”

  There’s enough light for me to see that the professor’s hands, like ours, are tied tightly. All three of us are bundled into the back of a small open-topped military wagon. The three men, who I now see are indeed in Turkish Army uniform, come into the back of the wagon with us. Each points his rifle at one of us, close up against our skin.

  I hear the engine start, and the truck begins to rumble across the courtyard. We pass under the gateway of the fortress, and streets and houses whiz past us in the night: we’re being taken away from Canakkale.

  Despite my pain and fear, I’m aware of the fresh night air as we drive along. There’s a cool breeze, whispering through the twisted branches of Mediterranean pines. I smell the heady scent of oleander. We are leaving the town, and heading out along the coast. Here and there I see the distant silvery glimmer of the sea.

  My face still smarts from the slap, my tied wrists are on fire and, as the truck bumps along, the muzzle of the rifle jabs at the arteries in my neck. But I feel alive in this moment; my senses are awake, as if drinking in the sights and scents of the Mediterranean night. We drive through an olive grove, the dark trees laden down with the burden of their fruit. Then we pass among lemon trees, and I smell the sweet freshness of the lemon blossom. The stars shine down on us all: us three captives and our three guards, as the truck rattles along the road in the night.

  After about ten miles, there are no more farms or houses. I hear an owl hooting as we turn off the road onto a track. The truck’s wheels brush against undergrowth: the track is overgrown with weeds and grass. Few people must pass this way.

  The rifle stabs into my neck again and again, as the truck rumbles along, jolting and bouncing on stones, scraping through bushes. There now seems to be no track at all. Finally, as if the driver is giving up, the wagon stops. There’s no point in waiting for another slap: I start to get up from my seat.

  We all stumble out of the wagon onto a patch of threadbare grass. There’s some light from the truck’s headlamps: enough to see we are in a strange, desolate landscape of tumbled, hilly knolls and odd square boulders. A grove of cypress trees stand up tall against the sky, which has changed from black to deep royal blue: dawn is not far away. I hear the hooting again, and Axelson says, as if to himself, “The owl of Athena.”

  No-one else says anything. Again the guns poke into our skin, and we’re pushed along, past stone blocks. In the starlight, some of the piles of stones seem to form pillars and walls, as if set there by human hands.

  We come to a slope; the grass is thin and sparse, growing here and there among tilted slabs, like a ramp. The soldiers push us up the ramp. At its top, on either side, are two columns of stone, like portals. A gnarled tree grows next to one of them.

  The rifle is at his throat, but Axelson speaks.

  “The Scaean Gate and the oak-tree.”

  Out of the darkness, I hear Kılıç’s voice. He must have been waiting for us, at the top of the ramp.

  “Well done, Professor. So, you know this place I’ve brought you to.”

  Axelson replies quietly.

  “Everyone knows it.”

  “Everyone has heard of it – but you actually recognise it, in the dark.”

  I can hear the satisfaction in Kılıç’s voice as he continues. “I’m glad that you, Professor Axelson, understand why I’ve chosen this place. The age-old battle of West against East, the peoples of Europe wrestling against the peoples of Asia. Always, in your stories, the West wins.”

  He pauses, then looks at Axelson. “As you are so clever, Professor, tell us all what happened here, at the Scaean Gate. The gate of ancient Troy.”

  Axelson speaks, his voice flat and dull.

  “Hector, the great hero of the Trojans, was met here at the Scaean Gate by his wife Andromache, with their child Astynax. Andromache begged Hector not to go out to battle, but he went out bravely, and was killed by the Greek warrior Achilles, just outside the city walls.”

  K
ılıç nods, and gestures to the soldiers. They push us forward, deeper into the ruins. I hear Kılıç speaking, as if he is a tourist guide.

  “This is the palace of King Priam. When Troy was sacked, some say Priam was beaten to death here by Achilles’ son, who used the dead body of Astynax, Priam’s grandson, as a club. That antagonism, that hatred, is how things were, and how things will always be, between Europe and Asia, West and East. But this time, the East wins.”

  In the middle of the maze of crumbling walls and pillars, I see an open, grassy space. Three wooden stakes stand in a row.

  Yuri looks at Kılıç. “I’m a Russian and a Cossack. Your talk of East and West means nothing to me. But it seems to me, Kılıç Pasha, that you are angry. Anger does not come from real strength of character. It comes from a lack of power; from resentment and fear.”

  Kılıç snorts scornfully, but Yuri carries on as the soldiers start to drag him towards a stake. “Are you resentful of what you call the West? – of their money, their science and industry? You told me, Kılıç, that you had a soldier’s honor. Where I come from, a strong man, a Cossack warrior, might kill his enemies. But he would never harm a woman. He would show his strength and generosity by letting her go free and unharmed.”

  Kılıç stares at me. Is Yuri’s attempt to save me having an effect? The soldiers continue to shove Yuri along; they are struggling with their task. Suddenly Kılıç pulls out a revolver.

  “Captain Sirko, stop resisting. Walk over to the stake, now. Or, I will shoot Agnes in the stomach, and let her die here on the ground, slowly.”

  Minutes pass, as first Yuri, then the professor and finally I am tied. We face forwards. The soldiers level their rifles. Beside them, Kılıç stands, ready to give the order. Behind his head, the sky is turning pink above an outline of moldering walls and the silhouettes of the cypress trees.

  I see, in the furthest distance, a figure appear at the top of one wall. Kılıç glances over his shoulder at the stranger, and his eyes narrow. He lifts his hand to halt the soldiers. Then he looks sharply at them.

  “Who is this, coming into Troy? I told all of you! – what we are doing tonight is secret. None of you were to breathe a word to anyone, not even the governor of the Canakkale prison. One of you must have told someone!”

  The three men shake their heads. Muttering to himself, Kılıç leaves us, and walks toward the approaching silhouette. In the dim half-light, I can’t even tell if the unknown figure is a man or a woman. Perhaps a woman: she looks much shorter and slighter than Kılıç, as I see the two of them outlined against the brightening sky. For five minutes, the two figures speak together quietly.

  The professor laughs bitterly. “This pompous fool Kılıç wants to play-act at an ancient legend. Now he wonders who this mysterious person is, coming secretly into Troy. Perhaps it is Ulysses?”

  But Kılıç is already striding back towards us. There’s an urgency in his step. Before he reaches us, he calls, his voice shrill.

  “Await my command before you fire – but, get your rifles ready. We need to shoot them quickly.”

  I see beads of sweat on Yuri’s forehead. He’s murmuring: I realise that he is praying.

  The professor speaks again. “I think the stranger has brought news that the war has ended. Kılıç will kill us now, and later he will claim that we were shot while the war was still on.”

  Kılıç is with the soldiers now, whispering furtively to them. They glance around, peering anxiously at the walls and shadows that surround us. There’s fear in the three men’s eyes. But Kılıç, I can see, is coldly determined to kill us. Suddenly, I hear his voice, loud and harsh.

  “Shoot them all in the head. You need to kill your target with one shot… when I give the word.”

  The men put the rifles to their shoulders. Like Yuri, I’m praying. Oddest of all, I hear the professor’s voice again. He isn’t praying; he’s speaking. Clear and bold, he says the words of a poem.

  “The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

  The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

  Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

  ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world.”

  Kılıç glances one last time at us, his lip curled, his eyes like stones. I hear the click of the rifles’ catches. Axelson’s voice carries on.

  “For my purpose holds

  To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

  Of all the western stars, until I die.

  It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

  It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles.”

  Kılıç shouts. “Now!”

  The guns fire.

  36 The Happy Isles

  It’s a deep, blissful blue; a color I’d never imagined: alive, sparkling and warm. The color of happiness. I’m looking out at the deep sapphire shades of the Aegean Sea, under a cloudless azure sky.

  I’m leaning on the rail of the British battleship HMS Agamemnon. Professor Axelson was wrong: the war had not ended – quite. Talaat Pasha and his cronies have fled Istanbul, and the new government of Turkey has sent its representatives to beg the British for peace. The Turkish ambassadors are aboard this battleship. We are steaming towards the Greek island of Lemnos, where the ship will anchor and, this afternoon, the treaty will be formalized. Tomorrow, there will be peace between the Allies and Turkey, and the thousand-year rule of the Ottoman Empire will come to an end.

  I hear footsteps on the deck beside me. Someone else is joining me to admire the scenery. Lord Buttermere looks out at the glittering waves. On one side of us, Lemnos rises from the water like a dream-island. I smell, above the waves, the scents of oleander and lavender carried to us from the island, which grows closer every minute. On the other side, I see the open sea, bounded by the shoreline of Turkey and the crumbling remains of ancient Troy. Below the ruins is the long yellow line of the beach where, long ago, the Greek ships landed.

  Lord Buttermere taps the handrail. “It’s funny, Miss Frocester – a British battleship named after the victorious Greek leader in the Trojan War. I don’t think Kılıç Pasha will appreciate the irony, though.”

  “I agree – although I remember Agamemnon himself came to a sticky end. But what will happen to Kılıç now?”

  “We’ll put him on trial, for the murders committed by his troops during the Battle of Baku. But he would prefer that, instead of being handed over to a mob in Istanbul. The people of Turkey have finally found out about Talaat’s atrocities. Unless he and his henchmen manage to escape from Turkish territory, they will all be executed – or lynched.”

  “Thank you for last night.”

  “That’s quite all right. I just wish I’d been able to prevent Kılıç’s final nasty stunt.”

  After the shots were fired, I opened my eyes. Everything was still the same: Yuri and Axelson tied to the stakes beside me, facing the three soldiers with their guns, and Kılıç standing by them. I saw the ancient ruins all around us, looming through that strange, dim light that comes just before daybreak. A growing chorus of birdsong rang out in the scented dawn air.

  Then the soldiers threw down their rifles, and Kılıç dropped his revolver. Here and there, human figures appeared above the ramparts of Troy. I heard Lord Buttermere’s voice.

  “Kılıç Pasha, I told you a few moments ago to untie these prisoners and release them unharmed.

  You have not kept your side of the bargain. I heard you whispering your instructions to your men – before you shouted your apparent order to fire. A mock execution by firing over the heads of your captives! – a stupid, theatrical act of cruelty.

  But since your three prisoners are still alive, I will keep my side of our deal. Here are the two warrants for your arrest that I told you about a few minutes ago.”

  Lord Buttermere held up two sheets of paper, white squares in the growing dawn light.

  “The first warrant, as I explained to you, Kılıç Pasha, was issued in Istanbul by the new
government of Turkey. It accuses you of murder and treason. It authorises your capture and summary trial – and execution, if found guilty.

  The other warrant is issued by the British government. It requests that you help us with our enquiries about events in Baku in September. General Dunsterville, who managed to survive the fighting, has submitted his report of events. But we do want to give you a fair hearing, and listen to your side of the story. And I’m very grateful that you have spared the lives of your prisoners. So, I will disregard the Istanbul warrant of arrest.”

  Buttermere took one of the sheets and tore it in two, before continuing.

  “If you look around, you will see that the ruins of Troy are now surrounded by armed sailors of the Royal Navy. They will take you and your men aboard our ship. The prison cell on HMS Agamemnon is not comfortable, but you will be glad of it. For you, it is much safer than any place on Turkish soil.”

  Yuri and the professor join us on the deck, smiling broadly. Lord Buttermere greets them, but then, hands behind his back, he saunters away. He’s giving the three of us time to talk.

  The professor is the first to speak.

  “Yesterday in the Sultan’s Fortress, I was taken away from you two. So I never got a chance to tell you my good news. You received a letter recently, didn’t you, Miss Agnes, from Mr du Pavey?”

  “I did. Have you had a letter from him too?”

  “Mine is more recent than yours.” The professor grins. “Rufus has fresh news for us. He is leaving Yeravan, and travelling to England. Mariam Sarafian will accompany him. As you know, Mr du Pavey is unlikely ever to marry. But he states the firm intention of legally adopting Mariam as his daughter. He also plans to travel as soon as he can to the United States with her, to visit the missionaries Mr and Mrs Clements in Flagstaff, Arizona. They returned there after the Bolsheviks expelled them from Russia.”