The Slaves Of Love

Chapter One 1855-1

Chapter One

1855Lord Castleford, galloping over the uneven ground, which was bright with wild grasses and flowers brilliant against the darkness of cypress trees, was conscious of a feeling of well-being.

After travelling for many weeks and being immersed in diplomatic meetings and memoranda, it was a joy to feel free and for the moment away from it all.

It was a brilliant summer’s day, the air was clear as crystal and, reining in his horse, he looked down at the City to which in the past all the civilised world had brought learning, art, riches and splendour.

Some of the glory of Constantinople had faded, but from the distance the glitter of the domes and spires, the vistas of marble colonnades, the great Palaces with their parapets and gilded balconies laden with sculpture, still stirred the imagination.

It was several years since Lord Castleford had been in Turkey and he thought as he looked on its sun-kissed Capital that the real beauty of Constantinople lay in its water.

From where he stood there was water everywhere, clear, blue, shimmering away into the placid Sea of Marmora.

To the North there was the narrow strait of the Bosporus teeming with barges, caïques, launches, boats and the Battleships of Britain, France and Turkey carrying troops to the Crimea.

Below him lay the glittering loveliness of the Golden Horn, which bisected the densest portion of the City, lending a strange and marvellous grace to all it touched.

As he thought of the City below him, Lord Castleford remembered that he had not yet, as he had intended, purchased a present for his host, the British Ambassador, the recently ennobled Lord Stratford de Redcliffe.

He had intended to bring him a gift from Persia where he had been posted as a special delegate to the Shah.

But he had in fact little time when he was in Teheran and what he had been offered seemed too ordinary and commonplace to be a fitting present for the venerated, autocratic and universally admired ‘The Great Elchi’, who had reformed the Ottoman Empire.

Caftans, however well embroidered, jewelled sword-hilts or gold brocades he already had in profusion and Lord Castleford sought something unique for the man whom he admired most amongst all others and who he frequently said had taught him all he knew of diplomacy.

On an impulse he decided to seek now, while he was out alone, some treasure hidden away in the shops of gold and silver work that the many ardent collectors who frequented Constantinople had not yet discovered.

He remembered one particular place where on a previous visit he had found mementos of the past when Greeks and Romans had left their imprint on what was now Turkey.

Many of their treasures had been secreted away or hidden in tombs until some thief or excavator had brought them into the light of day.

‘There must be something that Lord Stratford would really appreciate,’ Lord Castleford murmured to himself.

As he turned his horse away from the open country towards the loveliest Capital in the world, he could see many of its great monuments.

The vast oblong of the Hippodrome with its four rows of pavilions and galleries and the huge Basilica of Santa Sophia, drawing the eye of the faithful at all moments of the day.

Besides these there was a profusion of glittering minarets and domes all stirring the imagination, recorded in history, sung in verse, envied through the centuries by less opulent peoples.

Below him Lord Castleford could see the Top Kapi Serai or the Seraglio, which only the previous year had been forsaken by the Sultan for the Dolmabahçe Palace.

The cypress trees massed round it gave it a strangely evil appearance.

A place of redolent love, murder, beauty, ambition and torture through the ages, of dark deeds, and fretted fountains, of gilded kiosks and hideous deaf mutes.

Of unwanted women and dispensable Sultans being cast from its walls into the silent bosom of the Bosporus.

There death walked with life, beauty with decay, crude naked crime with the softness of young virgins, evil with the songs of birds.

The Seraglio once the heart of the City!

Lord Castleford soon found himself riding in the Bazaar where the Roman Emperor Justinian had once stabled two thousand horses, but where now there were open shops selling every kind of embroidery, goldwork, armour, cloth, provisions, all mingled with the colourful vegetables and fruit for which the Bosporus was famous.

In the narrow twisting alleyways of the Bazaar the people in themselves were a kaleidoscope of colour.

There were Armenians with coloured sashes, glaring out of rags and bearing heavy loads, veiled women with long mantles and yashmaks, blind beggars in threadbare turbans stretching out bony hands for baksheesh, fat Pashas under sunshades held by an attendant, Persians dyed by the Eastern sun in their sheepskin caps and fur pelisses.

Donkeys and lean horses staggered almost invisible under every sort of load.

It was all part of the East that Lord Castleford knew and loved.

His eyes did not miss an old Turk with a tray of sweetmeats on his head, Dervishes in white turbans and long dark caftans and Turkish Officers in their red fezzes trotting by on their well bred horses.

He moved on, taking no notice of those who solicited him as he passed and tried to tempt him with bales of Eastern wool, Bulgarian embroidered satins, Persian carpets woven wholly in silk, delicate silks from Broussa in every hue and texture.

He was just beginning to think he must have lost his way and forgotten where the shop he sought was situated, when suddenly there was a noise and confusion ahead.

The cry of shrill voices gradually became a roar of crying, hooting and shrieking.

Those around Lord Castleford looked apprehensively in the direction from which the noise was coming and even the most lethargic were suddenly alert.

A number of men came running down the narrow thoroughfare, many of them carrying sticks and apparently dragging with them someone or something that was for the moment indistinguishable.

Hastily Lord Castleford moved his horse as near as possible to an adjacent wall and the street-sellers pulled as many of their goods as they could within the confines of their tiny cavern-like shops.

But already vegetables were being upset, fruit rolled on the ground and the noise made by the invaders was magnified by the protestations and recriminations of those whose wares were being damaged.

Lord Castleford’s horse pricked his ears and fidgeted a little, but he was too well trained to be frightened by the din or even the sticks of those advancing upon them.

His Lordship edged him forward a little to where the street seemed wider.

Then he saw standing immediately at his side there was a European woman in a white gown.

Obviously frightened she was standing with her back against the side of the shop.

She had climbed onto a narrow step to be out of the way and standing in front of her was a Turk who was clearly her servant.

Lord Castleford was well aware that no lady would go shopping without having a servant in attendance and even so few women ventured into the Bazaar.

She was very quietly dressed and, although her skirts were full, she was not wearing a fashionable crinoline. But she had, he could see, a very elegant figure, small, slim and obviously very young.

As the crowd reached them surging around, shrieking and yelling, the noise was deafening and now Lord Castleford could hear what they were saying,

“Kill him! Destroy him! Torture him! An informer – a spy – he must die!”

It was then he could see in the centre of the crowd a man being dragged along by his arms, his legs, his clothing and his hair.

His face was running with blood and his eyes were half-closed.

It was obvious that he was more dead than alive and Lord Castleford guessed that he was, or so the crowd believed, a Russian spy.

War always engenders witchhunts and easily inflames a mob.

His Lordship had already learnt on his arrival at Constantinople that the City was in the grip of ‘spy fever’ and that the Turks were ready to suspect of being Russian any stranger whose nationality could not be accounted for.

The man the crowd had captured was being beaten with sticks by those who were not carrying him, kicked and spat upon and subjected all the time to an unintelligible but nevertheless very violent form of abuse.

As the rioters came level with Lord Castleford, they slowed their progress owing to the men in front of them being blocked where the road narrowed.

Seated on his horse Lord Castleford could see that the victim who had incurred the wrath of the mob, looked beneath his wounds, a man of some culture and of a better class than those who were persecuting him.

“Is there – nothing we can – do?”

For a moment he wondered who had spoken.

Then he saw that the lady who was pressed against the wall beside him was bending towards him so as to make herself heard.

She spoke in English, although he realised that she had a foreign accent.

“Unfortunately nothing can be done,” he replied almost sharply. “To get embroiled with this mob, considering we are also foreigners, would be to court disaster.”

“But he may have done nothing – wrong.”

“They believe him to be a spy – a Russian!”

“That is what I thought,” the lady said, “but they may be mistaken.”

“Perhaps they are,” Lord Castleford replied, “but it is not for us to interfere. In fact, quite frankly, we simply dare not do so.”

Even as he spoke, the crowd still shouting and screaming, moved on, brushing against his horse and causing the animal to fidget.

The man, who had been hit and knocked about all the time they had paused, now seemed to be unconscious as they carried him with them.

There were still stragglers coming down the narrow street and it was obvious that several of the younger men working in the shops or perhaps the proprietors’ sons, were ready to join in and see the fun.

“We should get away from here as quickly as possible!” Lord Castleford said.

He knew only too well that mob violence was something that could spread and intensify rapidly and that one fight usually led to another. The Bazaar would not be a safe place to be in until everything had quietened down again.

He looked at the woman standing beside him.

“If you would ride in front of me on my saddle,” he said, “I think it would be safer for you than attempting to walk.”

As he spoke, he glanced at the road ahead and saw as he suspected, many more men were hurrying to join the throng that had just passed them. The woman must have seen it too because she said quickly,

“That would be very kind.”

She turned to her servant who was still standing in front of her and Lord Castleford saw that he was a middle-aged Turk with a quiet respectable appearance.

“Go home, Hamid,” the lady said. “This gentleman will take care of me. I don’t think it wise for me to walk any further.”

“That is true, Mistress.”

Lord Castleford bent towards her, she put up her arms and he lifted her onto the saddle in front of him.

She was so light that she seemed almost to fly into the position he intended, sitting sideways so that with his left arm he could hold her in place, while he held the reins with his right.

The bonnet she wore tied under her chin was a small one and did not impede her from leaning back against him, making it easy for him to control his horse without her being in any way an encumbrance.

Slowly, without haste, Lord Castleford edged his mount forward with an expert hand, keeping as close as possible to the walls and drawing frequently to a standstill to allow the crowds to pass.

Fortunately everyone was so intent on joining the rioters ahead of them, whose shouts could still be heard, that they did not trouble themselves with either Lord Castleford or his burden.