The Laughter of Carthage

EIGHT

BLINDED FROM TIME to time by the reflected sunlight on the water, deafened by the babble of some score of dervishes wearing mud-coloured conical hats and robes all crowded together at the front of the boat, sweating in my European suit and doing my best not to breathe too much of the stink of the donkey traders and silk merchants who filled up the rest of the steamer, I fixed my attention on the Asian shore. In Scutari Carthage had re-established herself far more thoroughly than in Stamboul. In Scutari virtually nothing of Greece or Rome remained. Here were the cemeteries of Turks, who would rather have their corpses interred on Oriental soil, some of whom had built themselves tombs so grandiose they rivalled the massive mosques, also erected as memorials by Sultans and Sultanas to dead relatives. Lacking much of the commercial squalor of the rest of Constantinople, Scutari seemed tranquil and graceful in comparison, and far larger than she appeared either from the Golden Horn or the Sea of Marmara, with her vast barracks and warehouses in unusually good repair. She had been conquered long before the European city fell and thus the Turks held her in special esteem. Not far from here Hannibal, disgraced and defeated, exiled from his own ruthless homeland, had sought the protection of that good-hearted Greek, Prusius, King of Bithynia; and here Hannibal, in terror at being captured by Scipio Africanus, had sipped coward’s hemlock and died. Like Rome and Stamboul, Scutari too was built on seven hills, but she lacked their density. Large areas were still given over to foliage, from which her domes, turrets, minarets and roofs emerged, adding to her sedate beauty. Here were the villas of Ottoman dignitaries and aristocrats, with their pools and fountains and cool arcades. Once they had been secure in the knowledge that here, too, most of Turkey’s armed forces were garrisoned. Even now, from fortresses and blockhouses, came the distant sounds of bugles, of marching feet and shouted orders, as the little ferry pulled into the quay beside a wide, busy square where horses, carriages, motor vehicles and carts moved apparently at random, under the tolerant eye of Italian policemen. Ahead of me the dervishes went ashore in single file and crossed the square where they were soon hidden behind market stalls. Eventually I took a few steps over the wooden gangplank and looked about me in the hope of seeing Count Siniutkin.

The square itself contained the usual whitewashed Turkish cafés, the offices of various shipping agencies, a couple of banks and official buildings, and from it narrow cobbled streets led upwards between yellow and red houses covered with vines and creepers. Tall plane trees shaded the roofs and everywhere were trellises over which trailing, sweet-smelling plants had been grown. It seemed warmer here. I removed my hat, took out my handkerchief and wiped my forehead, wondering if the Count had, after all, misled me, when, from out of the mass of donkeys, horses and push-barrows, an old De Dion Bouton saloon car emerged. At first I thought it was an army vehicle, since the chauffeur at its wheel wore a red fez and a smart, grey uniform, then I saw my friend’s scarred face peering from the back. He waved to me, jumped out of the car and ran towards me, effusively shaking my hand and apologising for not being there to meet me. Everywhere around us men and women carried huge bundles up into the shadowy streets or moved similar loads onto the ferries. The sky was a pale shade of blue behind the steeply banked houses and the air felt hushed in spite of the considerable commotion in the square. The Count handed my bag in to the driver and politely stood to one side as I climbed aboard. It was a large, well-sprung, comfortable interior. The car, said the Count, had been lent by his colleague. Sitting side by side, we moved off and were soon passing between latticed walls and wrought-iron fences behind which I could glimpse the great, low mansions of the rich. The road rose and fell, twisting through great clumps of trees, fields of tombs and white marble monuments, the awnings of restaurants where well-to-do Turks lounged and smoked in the bright sun, as if there had never been a war, an uprising, a palace revolution, to disturb their enduring tranquillity. Later the white roads grew dustier and the walls lower, revealing lawns and gardens, the glittering mosaics of magnificent villas. The air was scented by brilliantly coloured shrubs and flowers, filled by the sound of splashing, tinkling water from courtyard fountains. It was to Scutari that the rich retired and they were anxious to be as far removed from the dirtier, noisier aspects of their fortunes as possible. It was not long before the villas grew further apart and I saw what I took to be a farmhouse, with a herd of goats nearby. I remarked that I had assumed we should find Siniutkin’s principal in Scutari itself. He shook his head. ‘We Europeans are particularly noticeable in Scutari. He thought it best we meet where it is more private.’

I asked if we were bound for a country estate. With some amusement Count Siniutkin told me to relax and enjoy the journey. ‘This could be your best opportunity of seeing the real Turkey. It has broadened my understanding of their attitudes and made me more sympathetic to what is presently going on in Turkish politics.’

I was having my usual difficulty with my nervousness at entering a singularly rural environment, with no image of our ultimate destination to reassure me. The road had become poor, causing the car to bump and bounce. I did not wish to be rude, but it was on the tip of my tongue to tell the Count that I had not the slightest interest in broadening my sympathies for any worshipper of Islam. ‘How long before we return to Constantinople?’ I asked him.

‘Not too long. A day or so. Perhaps a little more.’

Now I was forced to suppress distinct panic. ‘I had not expected to be away even one night,’ I said, ‘I trust it’s possible to send a telegram back to Pera. People there will worry about me, you see.’ I did not want either the Baroness or Esmé to become so worried they would disturb my careful plans. There was no telling what could go wrong if I was gone more than twenty-four hours. ‘Of course.’ Siniutkin patted my arm. ‘Write the message. I’ll see it’s sent.’

The thickly wooded hills gave off a heavy, damp scent I found relaxing. Bit by bit I recovered myself, ‘Is your backer a cripple, perhaps?’ I wondered why he could not travel to Scutari. ‘This is an expensive car. An Armenian, eh? Or a wealthy Greek?’

Siniutkin laughed, as if I had made a deliberate joke. The car emerged from the wood, turned a corner and began to ascend an even steeper hill. We reached the crest. A beautiful valley stretched below, with small lakes, rivers, vineyards and groves of fruit-trees. On the far side of the valley was a great mountain, its tallest peak still covered in snow. The valley might have been from Greek antiquity, a lost land, untouched by time, unspoiled by modern industry. ‘There’s Mount Olympus,’ said the Count, as if to reinforce my fantasy. ‘Or so the first Greek colonists thought. Your new business partners live on one of its lower slopes. As I know you’ve guessed, they’re Turkish. But not the old kind of Turk. You’ll get on with them. They’re more progressive than most Russians.’ This, I was sure, was more a tribute to the Count’s optimism than his good judgement, but I kept my own counsel. I did not care for the contradiction of a ‘progressive’ Turk, but any backer in those days was better than none. As long as the Turks refused to use my ideas to support Bolsheviks, I would deal with them. I could not readily see how the Turks would wish to war on anyone at present, unless it was those they traditionally persecuted.

The air became hotter as the day went on. We lost sight of the valley more than once during our descent. Eventually I could no longer tell exactly where we were. The road wound through little canyons and woods, passing tiny farms and plantations and drawing ever closer to Olympus, which Turks, the Count explained, called Mount Boulgourlou. Here and there were remains of grim Crusader fortresses, Moorish castles, Greek and Roman columns. The region’s whole history seemed represented by a magnificent junk pile. I was lulled into unsuspicious ease by this landscape. It was without doubt the most delightful I had ever experienced. The sun set behind us; the car took another steep, winding road then turned suddenly into a wooded driveway, rattling its gears to negotiate a final sharply ascending gravel rise and bring us to the forecourt of an impressively large old villa. The place looked as if it had not been lived in for some while. I had become so used, however, to the carelessness of even upper class Turks towards repairs and maintenance that I could no longer be sure my impression was right. The villa’s style was more Neapolitan than Turkish, but its windows had the usual intricately carved geometrical lattices. There were long, white balconies with wrought-iron railings, mosaic terraces, a blue-tiled fountain, slender pillars. I half expected a salaaming, exotically turbanned Nubian to open the car’s door for us. Actually the chauffeur did this, saluting as we got out, then an ordinary, barefooted house servant in fez, baggy white trousers and sleeveless jacket, ran quickly down the main steps and spoke in Turkish to Count Siniutkin, who understood him. He indicated we should climb to the first terrace where, under a silk awning, we found a table laid with glasses and plates. Looking at me the servant asked a question in thick, impassive French. ‘Will you take some masticha?’ said the Count. ‘This is an Islamic house, I’m afraid. The other choices are tea, coffee, lemonade.’ I accepted the masticha and we sat down.

The house was surrounded by thick woods but here and there it was possible to see the slope of the mountain above, the glint of distant ocean. ‘This is where the Byzantine Emperors built their hunting lodges,’ said Count Siniutkin. ‘It is supposed to have the loveliest of all views.’

On a tray the servant brought the drink: a jug, with ice and water. Count Siniutkin poured a little masticha into a glass, then topped it to the brim with water. I held the drink to the light to enjoy its opalescent colours, then sniffed its sweet aroma. The heavy air carried a scent of roses, jasmine and fuchsia. As the sky darkened to a greenish blue I was filled with a wonderful sense of well-being. Almost to counter this, I pulled myself together and reminded the Count of his promise to send a telegram. ‘Give me the message,’ he said, rising at once. I took my writing case, addressing a sheet of paper to Mademoiselle Esmé Loukianoff at our suite in Tokatlian’s. I told her not to worry about me, to seek out the Baroness if she needed company but to remain discreet. All was well. I should see her in a matter of days. I remembered how she had wept when in the past I had been gone only a few hours. Yet the telegram was the best I could do, though it upset me that Siniutkin was now more intimate with my private life.

‘A lady?’ He lifted an eyebrow.

I had to explain she was my ward. (My fear was that somehow Leda would find Esmé at Tokatlian’s and thus doubt the rest of my story.) But I had done all I could. I waved my hand. ‘Family matters. I would be obliged if you mentioned nothing of this telegram when you next meet the Baroness.’

‘My dear chap! Of course!’ Count Siniutkin was playfully sober. ‘I’ll get this off immediately. A servant will take the message into Shamlaya before supper.’

‘I thought for a moment there was a private wireless. The owner of this villa is evidently wealthy.’

‘He comes from a very old family.’ Count Siniutkin bowed then before ascending a short flight of steps leading through an archway into the house. ‘I’ll deal with this now.’

I leaned back on my divan, enjoying the delicious tranquillity of that magical garden. Birds began a dusk chorus, the fountains sang, the air grew richer by the second. Soon I hoped to buy a similar villa as a reward for all my anguish. While certain I was unobserved, I took a quick pinch of cocaine from my little silver box and added a final touch to my exquisite mood. All I needed was a tchibouk to smoke, a couple of lovely little haremliks to worship me and I would be happy as any Sultan. It was my first real experience of the way Orientals lull their guests, making them drunk on exotic sensations, using nothing as crude as wine. Yet I had no reason to doubt Siniutkin. He was Kolya’s friend. A man of impeccable background and Christian. He would never betray me to a Moslem.

When the Count came back it was with a grey-bearded little fellow in the uniform of a Turkish bimbashi whose grave, light blue eyes stared from a face scarcely darker than my own, though his was tanned by the sun. He shook hands, greeting me formally in good, clear Russian. ‘I am Major Hakir, Monsieur Pyat.’ The Count said: ‘Major Hakir represents a friend who cannot be here.’

I have had occasion, in my life, to accuse myself of many things, but stupidity is not one of them; although I would agree I have sometimes been over-trusting or naive. It was dawning on me very rapidly that the Count’s radicalism had not ended with Kerenski’s overthrow. He had merely transferred his loyalties to the Kemalist cause. Now, of course, the nature of his earlier questions became clear. And my replies, meant only as tact, had reassured him I shared his politics. Naturally, I became deeply perturbed, but dare not show it. I had escaped one terrible Civil War. I had emerged with my life after being the prisoner of Ukrainian bandits. I had survived torture, prison, attempts to assassinate me. I certainly had no desire to risk exposing myself to such dangers again, particularly in Turkey where I did not even speak the language. My first duty to myself, therefore, was to humour these people; my second was to escape as soon as possible. How I loathe radicalism and the manipulative tricks, the despicable cunning of those who will descend to any level in the name of a cause in which they always invest the highest virtue. Yet once again if I was to save my life I must curb any expression of anger, nod and smile at the Turkish major, make a pretence at relaxation.

Bimbashi Hakir said slowly, with that distant, pseudo-courtesy typical of the Osmanli, ‘Count Siniutkin says you have agreed to help us. We are very grateful.’ He gestured at the servant who poured him some masticha. ‘Certain hotheads in our movement wish to seek Bolshevik support. But our struggle is different here. We have no intention of putting a torch to history and religion. We merely believe that certain practical reforms are necessary. A cleaning of the stables, as it were. You can be of enormous help to us, M’sieu Pyatnitski. We must convince the pro-Bolshevik faction that we can have progress without absolute destruction of our heritage. You, I understand, are of the same thought.’ Fixing his pale eyes on me, he lifted his glass and sipped. I was reminded of Sultan Abdul Hamid pictured in middle years. Hakir had the same intense, unblinking, almost birdlike stare which he turned directly on whomever he addressed. I babbled silly catch-phrases to satisfy him and he smiled. These egocentric revolutionaries demand only confirmation of their solipsistic delusions. ‘I hope you will be my guest tonight. We shall travel together in the morning. As you can imagine,’ he made a gesture which was meaningless to me but which evidently gratified him, ‘I am taking something of a risk in occupying my own house!’

What choice had I? I was furious! The victim of deceit, I had been lured into a nest of snakes and must now hiss and writhe and seem equally venomous lest they turn and strike at me in unison. I would take as much of the Turk’s gold as I could, giving him an inferior design for his trouble and reporting all I knew to the authorities as soon as I had the opportunity to get clear. Presently, however, it was of paramount importance to bide my time, let them think me a willing volunteer. Another might have lost self-control upon finding himself unexpectedly in the power of his hereditary enemies, but I managed to suppress emotion, presenting an almost enthusiastic face to the bimbashi. Neither he nor Siniutkin, whom I now perceived as a traitor to his race, his religion and his class, for a moment guessed my deepest feelings. Let them hang themselves, I thought. With important information about the Kemalists, I could easily approach the British and thus win myself and Esmé a passage to England, where, moreover, I should be safe from the Osmanli’s vengeance. It was my duty to learn everything. While Siniutkin and Hakir talked of ‘corruption’ in the Sultanate and Allied ‘machinations’, I pretended smiling enthusiasm. Soon after sunset we entered a wide, low room, hung with expensive silks and tapestries, furnished with low divans and richly carved tables. We ate what I must admit was an excellent, if simple, meal. The bimbashi was one of those Turks who prided himself on the elegance and near asceticism in his lifestyle (frequently the mark of an Islamic fanatic) and spared not a second’s thought for the miserable subject peoples who provided it.

We retired early, with further expressions of friendship and mutual idealism. In a room full of Moorish arches and screens, with the breeze moving my four-poster’s mosquito curtains, I lay looking up at the rounded ceiling whose delicate colours were illuminated by brass lamps suspended on chains, and I carefully considered my situation. I might be able to get up later and steal the motor car, but with no proper driving experience, possessing only a rough idea of where we were, not even knowing how much petrol was in the tank, I set that plan aside as being only good for an emergency. Again I found myself having to cope with my anxieties about Esmé and the Baroness and pointlessly brooded on Siniutkin’s treachery. He had to be insane to betray so thoroughly his own ancient blood. He was one of those who supported indiscriminately any revolutionary cause: a latter-day Bakunin, hiding a corrupt and murderous soul behind a charming, aristocratic exterior. I should take particular pleasure in denouncing him as soon as I returned to Constantinople. It had become increasingly clear that the post-revolutionary world threw up huge numbers of subtle opportunists like him, but outside Russia this was my first direct experience of the breed. I would become far more cautious in later years. Men like Siniutkin take a perverse pleasure in betraying the people who trust them most; they are the willing agents of every tyranny. This kind would later lure friends back to Stalin’s Russia to be killed, become journalists on émigré newspapers, discover the secrets of poor souls trying to help friends or relatives still trapped in that ‘Union of Soviets’, then slyly pass the information over to the Cheka. They willingly practised the most despicable forms of hypocrisy to achieve Trotski’s maniacal dream of World Revolution. Inevitably, of course, most were themselves betrayed. Fittingly Siniutkin would be assassinated very probably by direct order of the NKVD. His kind did more damage to the cause of peace than any number of warring armies. The motives of Turkish mutineers were at least understandable, if scarcely reasonable. Men of Siniutkin’s stamp however remain to this day a baffling mystery to me.

Next morning, to my dismay, the traitor had gone. He left the excuse of needing to keep contact with French arms dealers in Scutari. I suspected that actually he could not bear to face me. All I could hope was that he had sent my telegram as promised. I was now entirely in the hands of the little grey-bearded bimbashi. Hakir was as superficially polite as ever. I think he never quite realised how Siniutkin had tricked me. He treated me without suspicion as a fellow conspirator, although he remained reserved. As a Christian and a Russian, I was still his ancient blood enemy. I determined to give him friendly responses for as long as necessary. I knew their radical cant. I was capable of making as much hot air about self-determination and universal justice as Lenin himself. We ate a small breakfast, then left Hakir’s villa, climbing back into the De Dion Bouton again. The chauffeur took a different road down the mountain, I received tantalising glimpses of distant Constantinople, her towers and roofs bright above the morning sea fog, then we were moving inland, leaving the lush, dreaming beauty of the hills behind and progressing relentlessly towards the barren, blood-soaked plateaus on which the primitive Osmanli hordes had first gathered themselves to launch, with ferocious jealousy, their attempted conquest of Christ, civilisation and the gentle humanitarian virtues of the Greeks.

Hourly the earth grew poorer. The forests disappeared until the only shade came from occasional clumps of plantains or a poplar grove beside a small riverlet. Sometimes the road ran beside a railway track; at other times it would pass through a collection of dusty houses built around a miserable square, with the inevitable mosque, an occasional fountain and sometimes a police post. We passed poor farmers with heavily laden donkeys (or more frequently wives), two or three British army lorries, a car flying the flags of France, Italy and Britain, from which white, hard faces stared. I hoped we might be stopped by Allied police, but the deeper into Anatolia we went, the fewer Europeans we saw. At first the police posts had both Italian and Turkish officers; later only Turks could be seen. Once a detachment of Turkish cavalry went by, flying the standard of the Sultan. My companion scowled at this. ‘They believe they are patriots. In fact they support Turkey’s most vicious enemy.’ I wondered if this bimbashi had taken part in recent attempts to assassinate the ruling Sultan who, in my view, was more realistic than most of his predecessors. Now and then Hakir was saluted by a policeman who seemed to recognise him and I realised I must maintain caution everywhere. Superficially there was no telling who was a Kemalist and who was not.

We stopped only once, at a farmhouse, to buy some bread and olives and to relieve ourselves. By afternoon we were climbing again into cool hills while the road became steadily worse and more than once we had to stop or swerved to avoid a hole. The bimbashi would sometimes admonish the chauffeur, sometimes apologise to me. He sat upright throughout the journey, occasionally lighting a cigarette, or reaching out to hold the silk cord near the window. Twice he pronounced the name of a town which I did not recognise. He pointed out the ruins of a Classical temple, a Crusader tower, the more modern remnants of a recently demolished village. Towards evening we descended into a narrow rocky valley containing a river and some stunted oaks. The car was forced to halt at a narrow track. Through clouds of gnats, the bimbashi led me down beside a stream, then across a shuddering, creaking bridge to a wooden house resembling a rundown Russian dacha. Originally it had been white, but most of the paint had peeled. The boards of the veranda were as unstable as the bridge and I thought the whole thing must fall as we went inside. The dusty rooms were sparsely furnished; they had not been lived in for years. As we progressed we heard murmuring voices towards the back, then we came into a low covered courtyard surrounding a brick well. Beyond it were quarters occupied by several horses and close to the well itself sat or squatted three of the bimbashi’s henchmen. They were not unfamiliar to me. With slight variations of features and dress they might have been Hrihorieff’s bandits, the sort now calling themselves Cossacks. They had the same wolfish, aggressively challenging, appearance. They did not bother to stand as the bimbashi and I came into the courtyard, though they showed respect for a man who now crossed from the stables, grinning at Hakir, lifting an eyebrow at me as if we were old friends. From the way he held himself, this leader had obviously been a soldier; now he was almost as ragged as the others, who had never been anything more than third-rate brigands, self-styled ‘irregulars’: bazhi-bazouks. They wore sheepskin caps, bandoliers criss-crossed their bodies, cartridge pouches bulged at chest and hip. and their belts were crowded with knives, swords, pistols, most of which were rusty. Crouching like apes beside the well they tried to light a fire under a cooking pot. The leader grunted something, offering to share the congealed contents of the pot with us, but we shook our heads. Eventually we accepted some pieces of bread torn off a grey, communal loaf. Outside, the stream rushed over rocks with such a din, I thought it must flood and wash the house away, but this amplified sound was merely a feature of the courtyard. As soon as Major Hakir and the chief bazhi-bazouk led me into another room, there was relative silence. Hakir and the bandit talked for a while in their own language. I could only understand a few words, mainly to do with military matters. At last Hakir turned to me. ‘We shall rest for an hour or two, then press on, although there’s very little daylight left. Can you ride a horse, M’sieu Pyatnitski?’

Reluctantly, I told him I could, though my experience was limited. The car, said Hakir, must return to Scutari. It was too conspicuous now. Besides, it was not really capable of crossing this sort of terrain. An intense depression slowly crept through me as I realised I was severing yet another important connection with the civilised world. Now, as I had been in Ukraine, I was reduced to a pony. I consoled myself with remembered reports of Greek gains in Anatolia. There was a good chance Kemal and his bandits would be overrun in another day or so. I might soon be rescued. My main consideration therefore must be to avoid becoming mixed up in the shooting and accidentally killed. I forced myself to forget my worries and attain that sort of trance, almost a coma, which had served me well in the past. I was virtually able to anaesthetise my brain, becoming hardly conscious of what I said or did. Meanwhile I retained at all times the will and capacity to escape as soon as an opportunity arose. Soon I was like an automaton, mounting with the others, riding slowly up the valley floor, through a narrow defile and out again into that awful, barren landscape.

Under a desert moon, astride an ill-fed, badly smelling pony, I trotted across terrain so ugly, so unkempt and worthless, I could not believe anyone would wish to fight for it, let alone die for it. Perhaps, I thought, they were so deluded they could see lush fields where there was only lifeless dust.

In answer to my casual questions Bimbashi Hakir told me we were ‘some distance from Karagamous’, which was absolutely meaningless to me. In any case, my attention was soon divided for I recognised the bite of my first louse. I began to re-experience all the familiar miseries of bandit life. It remained ironic, I thought, that once again I had aimed for an enlightened future and landed in the ignorant past. In my document case my plans for a marvellous new flying machine could change the nature of twentieth-century life. Yet, here I was riding with men whose habits and attitudes had not progressed in a thousand years, who, in every detail save for more sophisticated weapons, resembled their savage ancestors. Plainly, Kemal had fallen into the same trap as Lenin, summoning up atavistic forces, peasants and bandits, to turn the battle in his favour. Consequently exaggerated power now belonged to the people most likely to resist change. I was reconciled a little by the observation that Bimbashi Hakir fared little better on horseback than I. He was horribly uncomfortable, attempting to keep up-wind of his ‘irregulars’, avoiding as much as possible direct contact with their unbelievably filthy bodies. They in turn were plainly amused by our discomfort, stroking their greasy moustaches, staring at us from beneath thick, black brows, mumbling and grinning. Once we stopped amongst gnarled dwarf pines and watched a big locomotive shriek through the night, lights blazing, only about a hundred yards below. I noticed they did not look directly at the train but slightly away from it, as if they felt it would only attack if they made eye contact.

By the small hours of the morning, when we rested the horses, I was reduced to hoping the promise of rebel gold meant more to these cutthroats than their curiosity about what I carried in my bag. We travelled a few more miles until dawn, when we came upon a small, mephitic village. Here we breakfasted off bread and kid’s meat, under the eyes of residents scarcely distinguishable from their dung-coloured houses and their straw-coloured streets. All, including dogs and goats, seemed designed to blend with the surrounding countryside. I was able to sleep in relative peace as the Osmanlis attended to their prayers, but we were soon on our way again. Now yellow grass and sticky mud clung to our ponies’ feet, sometimes making it almost impossible for them to walk. It drizzled for a while, then grew humid under a grey sky. Once or twice we passed an ancient ruin, weather-worn, its origins lost. The plain seemed infinite. We came upon lone herdsmen with flocks of black and white sheep. Big tawny dogs ran at us, barking and baring fangs, until they were called off. For a few hours that night we camped in the open, with nothing to eat but figs and olives. Then we were on our way again. Without a map or compass I could not understand how anyone could not get lost in this wilderness. Every so often we crossed the railway track, but the bandits were not using it to find direction. Rather, it seemed an inconvenience to them. The sight of the railway, however, always cheered me. It meant there was a link with civilisation after all, though the rebels evidently preferred to travel more discreetly. On the third day, as we watered our horses beside a small lake, a De Havilland with grubby markings, either French or American, flew low overhead, plainly interested in us. The bimbashi was barely able to stop his bandit companions from dragging out their rifles and firing at it. This, more than anything, reminded me we were in a country still at war.

Later that same afternoon the ground began to rise sharply, then a high ridge appeared in the distance and behind it a range of tall mountains. Major Hakir seemed relieved and smiled at me (I believe now he had feared himself lost). He pointed ahead. ‘Ankara,’ he said.

The town came into sight on the crest of the ridge; a broken outline of weather-beaten roofs with a few minarets lifting above them. The outline ended abruptly at the southern edge where a huge, square featureless fortress stood. On the steep face of the ridge I saw fire-blackened ruins and took these as indication of recent attack. When I voiced my guess, Hakir was amused. He shook his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘It was the damned Armenians. They wouldn’t leave.’

Behind the ridge the peaks of jagged volcanic mountains formed a backdrop of intense blue for the brown and ochre of the pathetic town. Ankara was as timeless as any of the other settlements I had seen on the way. Here and there on the outskirts were ruins plainly Roman; elsewhere the remains of Anatolia’s ancient Greek conquerors. Below the original town modern buildings had been erected, but they were little more than two-storey shacks. Over the largest flew a red and yellow flag, standard of that modern Hannibal who even now gathered another horde from the plains and mountains of Asia Minor, to ride once more against Rome and all she stood for. I made out artillery emplacements, trenches, sandbags. Obviously the town was well defended. Half the weapons guarding Kemal’s New Carthage were of recent Christian manufacture. I saw neat rows of army tents, then makeshift shelters, large marquees, pavilions of silk and cotton which might have come straight from some Arabian desert. There were lorries, motor cars, at least two dismantled aeroplanes, yet horses still predominated.

The camp was chaotic, evidently in preparation for battle. Large mounted bands of brightly clad bazhi-bazouks raced in every direction, whooping and yelling; over this were the ululations of the imams and an occasional shot, fired into the air. For all its immediate confusion the camp was well run. It had the air of discipline I only once witnessed before, in the anarchist stronghold of Nestor Makhno. The odour of woodsmoke was pervasive, mingling with the stink of oil and cordite, issuing from hundreds of small fires burning in dugouts on the outskirts of Ankara. Bimbashi Hakir was awkwardly proud of his citadel but the force still looked far too small to withstand the Greeks. Again I consoled myself that perhaps all I had to do was sit tight and wait to be captured. Guards allowed us through the first ring of defences and into the town until, on the northern side, we arrived at the large nondescript wooden villa flying Kemal’s standard. It stood on its own, some distance from a cluster of barrack-houses, had evidently been painted recently and was in considerably better condition than most. We dismounted. With his hand on my elbow, Hakir led me inside.

We were not stopped by the uniformed guards at the first archway. Coming to attention, they saluted Bimbashi Hakir, staring curiously at me. They looked like men who had been fighting for too long yet were neurotically impatient to begin again. My dark overcoat was layered with dust and mud. My Homburg hat was wrecked. It was impossible to see anything of my patent-leather spats. I had set off dressed carefully, to meet a great financier, but would have been more suitably costumed in the rags and Phrygian cap of the Mob. I was not happy with the condition of my clothing, though I continued to curb my temper, smiling enthusiastically at whoever was introduced to me, nodding here, bowing there. We must have shaken hands with half the bimbashis in the Kemalist army before we got to a little anteroom and closed the door. A large, yellow-bladed fan cooled the air overhead. At first I was surprised, assuming it to be electric. Then I realised it was worked by a hidden slave: an apt image of their new ‘modern’ Turkey. The room was whitewashed and had lattices at the windows, but no glass. On the wall furthest from the door was a large map of Anatolia, one corner of which flapped in the draft of the erratically turning blades. It was almost twilight, but still miserably hot. In front of the map several tables had been arranged, like school desks, and at the nearest of these, his chair turned to face us, sat a tall, slender individual smoking a cigarette in a holder. He had discarded his fez in favour of a French-style képi, but otherwise his uniform, though stylishly cut, was Turkish. He apologised in Parisian accents that he had never learned Russian and smiled ironically to acknowledge his people’s ancient feud with mine. Then he got up quickly, shook hands, and offered me a chair. I was impressed by his manners, if not his attitude, and in other circumstances might have found him charming. His green eyes betrayed far more intelligence than those of Bimbashi Hakir who saluted, murmured something in Turkish, then bowing to me said he was at my service but in the meantime would leave me with this gentleman. He closed the door carefully behind him as he went out and I was alone with the elegant Turk.

‘Are you hungry or thirsty, sir?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘Not particularly. But you have the advantage of me. Am I in the presence of Kemal Pasha?’

This amused him. ‘Unfortunately the great general is still on his way to Ankara. His time is increasingly taken up with civilian politics rather than military matters. I am Orkhan Pasha. You know my friend Count Siniutkin, I believe?’

I agreed I was acquainted with the Count, ‘I am very flattered by your interest in my designs.’

‘I must apologise for having to ask you to travel all this way, and in such rough company. But we are in the middle of a war, m’sieu. As I’m sure you understand, it is not as easy for me to come and go in Constantinople as I would wish. Our friends in the city have not yet achieved the necessary power. However, like our President and Commander-in-Chief, I am dedicated to modernising my backward country. When Turkey is restored to her proper dignity, we shall be able to invite men of science from all over the world, to help us fulfil our great dream.’

In honesty, I was able to tell him it was a dream I shared. I did not add that I was sceptical of Kemal or any of his other lieutenants, however well cut their uniforms, ever making reality of their dream. (As it happened, I was quite correct. Giving the vote to women is not necessarily a mark of progress.) ‘Do you wish me to show my plans to your Commander?’ I asked.

‘The interest in your invention, M. Pyatnitski, comes directly from myself and from a certain Çerkes Ethem, who commands our largest force of irregulars. I think you might actually find us more representative of the nationalist cause than Kemal himself.’ Swinging his legs over a bench he moved towards the window, almost as if he expected someone to be listening there. His boots were as brightly polished as the rest of his accoutrements. I recognised a dandy, just as I was quick to scent internal politics, jealousies and plots within the camp. These I might exploit to my advantage.

‘You are plainly a far-sighted man, Orkhan Pasha.’ I hesitated. ‘I’m surprised a peasant irregular like Çerkes Ethem should support your ideas, however.’

The Turkish officer shrugged, lighting a fresh cigarette, ‘It’s probably accurate to say he supports me rather than my ideas, m’sieu. He is primarily a soldier. He wants to see this business accomplished as swiftly and efficiently as possible. What is more -’ he hesitated in some embarrassment, clearing his throat - ‘his gold will finance your planes. I suppose we should discuss such things. I have no head at all for business, I fear. Are you a practical man? I have never had to deal with the commercial aspects of soldiering.’

I recognised this typical Turkish attitude. To him the very idea of bargaining and discussing money was distasteful. Coming as I did from noble Cossack stock, I shared a little of his attitude. ‘There is no need for immediate discussion, Orkhan Pasha. I would prefer to bathe, as my first priority, if that is possible. I should also like my clothes cleaned. There was a misunderstanding earlier. As a result I brought no changes with me.’

Much relieved, he became solicitous. ‘Excellent. And then we shall dine.’ He clapped his hands. When an orderly appeared he gave rapid instructions in Turkish. ‘Very well, m’sieu. We shall look forward to enjoying your company in a little while!’

I was escorted to a decently equipped bathroom, with huge fixtures all in marble and gilt, where the orderly took my clothes away. I spent some time in the bath, collecting my thoughts and reviewing what I had learned. In these days, amongst most bandits and rebels, a good engineer or mechanic was regarded as a valuable asset, not to be too easily disposed of. I had become a commodity again, as I had been amongst Hrihorieff’s rabble, and at least knew I would not be quite so vulnerable to the arbitrary decisions of a petty warlord. I finished bathing as the orderly returned with my suit and fresh European linen in my sizes. Feeling considerably refreshed, I allowed myself to be led down a passage, up a short flight of stairs, to a long room on the second storey where hot food was being served from large dishes on a kind of massive sideboard. This appeared to be the officers’ mess. There was only one other present and he was already helping himself to aromatic sausages, stews and sauces which, if properly prepared, can be amongst the tastiest in the world. My mouth was watering as I greeted this stranger. He was evidently the bandit leader, Çerkes Ethem, whom Siniutkin had called the Zapata of Turkey: one of those charismatic ‘Robin Hood’ figures produced by almost every national revolution. His swarthy Mongolian features, his glittering narrow eyes, black beard and rough, brutish manners identified him. That such a creature should consider using any kind of aeroplane was astonishing. Orkhan Pasha appeared behind me soon after I had entered, leading me towards the brigand chief and introducing us. Next he removed the plate gently from Çerkes Ethem’s hand and waved us both towards a table, which had been laid for three in the European fashion. He clapped and signalled to servants standing ready against the far wall, speaking in rapid, humorous tones to Çerkes Ethem and then, turning to me, said in French: ‘The stewards feel very hurt if we did not require their services.’

Çerkes Ethem shrugged and put himself in his chair rather as if he were mounting a half-trained pony, but he was smiling, too. His Turkish was slower and easier to understand. He thought these men should be out fighting, not waiting on tables. It soon emerged that his hatred of Mustafa Kemal was greater than any dislike he had of Greeks, Armenians, Bulgarians, Georgians, British or Albanians. Evidently Kemal had tried to enforce discipline on the bandit, who resented it. His men lived off booty. Part of their prize was the privilege of taking any captured village’s women, Turkish or otherwise. Kemal was being stupid about that tradition. What was more, he demanded large shares of any treasure they found. As I listened to these criticisms, I began to suspect Ethem of being the likeliest man responsible for the recent burning of Ankara’s Armenian quarter. His wholehearted contempt for that persecuted race was almost admirable in its dedication, like a Cossack’s fierce, purified hatred of the Jew. As the meal progressed I found myself quite enjoying the bandit’s company, perhaps more than that of the sophisticated dandy seated next to him. Orkhan Pasha leaned back in his chair, eating little, smoking a great deal, listening with amused relish to his ally’s ravings. In other circumstances I might have grown to like Ethem, notwithstanding his dedication to Allah and his unselfconscious anti-Christian bias. He was then, I later learned, a much greater hero in Nationalist circles than Kemal himself. If he had succeeded in his bid for power, Çerkes Ethem would have withdrawn entirely from Constantinople. He told me he had no use for the place and was willing to trade her for an Allied pledge to recall the Greeks. He knew of Lord Curzon’s plan to expel all Turks from Stamboul, Galata and Pera, an idea supported by Winston Churchill and a handful of other visionaries in the English cabinet. He had nothing against the scheme, he said. ‘Then those people would have to bring all their wealth and knowledge to Ankara. It seems the only way you would get them out of their harems, eh?’ He revealed a knowledge of German, a little French, and a smattering of Russian from his pre-war ‘private expeditions’ across the border, so I had no trouble in following him. Orkhan Pasha, on the other hand, sometimes used such convoluted sentences, with such an affected Parisian accent. I frequently failed to grasp his meaning. However, the situation itself was clear enough to me. While Kemal busily prepared for a big campaign against the Greeks, these two intended to build my planes. At a critical moment they intended to unleash the machines upon the enemy, proving themselves not only ‘better Turks’ than Kemal (who was disliked for his Westernising notions) but also men with a practical command of modern technology. They needed to impress the politicians as well as their troops. By building the planes, I saw immediately, I would actually be driving a wedge between two parties of Nationalists and so rendering the whole force weaker. I could, in clear conscience, help Çerkes Ethem, if I so desired. I should be able to see my machines tested in the air while at the same time striking a blow at the Kemalist cause.

Orkhan Pasha asked when I could begin. I said I could start at once, given proper materials. I had unrolled my sheets of linen paper and was explaining likely unit costs and potential problems, when we were interrupted by a distant booming from the western perimeter. Strolling to the shutters, Orkhan Pasha opened them and peered through the lattice. Flashes of fire turned his face red and made his eyes as animated as a devil’s. ‘A Greek air attack,’ he said. ‘They’ve had wind of our mobilisation and are trying to slow us down. Now you can see how urgently we need your aircraft, M. Pyatnitski.’

‘They’re damned cowards.’ Çerkes Ethem wiped soft bread over his empty plate. ‘Like all Greeks. They hate to fight man-to-man. But what can you expect of British lapdogs?’ He grinned. ‘Not that it’s Greeks attacking us now. Do you think those flyers were born in Athens?’ He stuffed the bread in his mouth, chewed for a moment, then swallowed. He shook with amusement at his own wit. ‘The only way to get a Greek into the air is in a vulture’s beak!’

The guns of Ankara were firing back, but it was field artillery, useless as anti-aircraft defence. I heard the whistle of bombs. I had hoped never to be so close to another battle in my life and for a moment felt sick. I made myself go to the window. This attack was nearer than most I had experienced in Russia. In the flashes from bombs and shells, from flares which seemed to cut across the sky at random, I saw horsemen galloping hell-for-leather through the roiling smoke. I never discovered what they hoped to achieve, unless they simply dared the planes to hit them. Turks love to die. Death must be so much preferable to most of them, I suppose.

Orkhan Pasha turned away from the window with a shrug. He closed the shutters. ‘We have some planes,’ he told me, ‘but nowhere suitable for them to land and take off. That was why your idea appealed so much to us.’ He made an elegant lifting motion with both hands. ‘A man who carries his own machine on his back, who can rise into the air and come down again at will, like a bird, is exactly what we need. Certainly he can drop bombs and observe troop movements, but he can do much more. He can invade garrisons, occupy whole towns from within.’ His eyes became dreamy. I suspected he rolled hashish into his tobacco.

Çerkes Ethem had no scruples about financial questions. ‘How much would it cost to equip, say, a thousand men in this way?’

‘If you had your own factory?’

‘They could be made in secret. In parts. Let’s say in the workshops of Scutari.’

‘You’ll see from this note here. I’d guess, if we placed a bulk order for the engines, that we’d get them for about fifteen sovereigns apiece. Then there are the propellers, the wings. All must be made by skilled engineers and from specific kinds of wood. Another fifteen pounds, if produced in quantity. Say thirty sovereigns each.’

Çerkes Ethem began to scowl to himself. Orkhan Pasha let his chair drop forward. He dabbed at his eyebrow, removing a droplet of sweat. He looked almost desperately at his comrade, virtually willing him to speak and was then hugely relieved when the bandit said, ‘Thirty thousand in gold. Cheaper than a conventional plane. They cost about a thousand each.’ He pulled back his kaftan and drew a little, tasselled bag from his cummerbund. ‘There’s enough for four planes already!’ He shook with amusement. ‘The Greeks will give us more. And if they won’t, surely the Armenians will take pity on us.’ He winked at me. ‘This will get your factories going. We’ll let you have the rest shortly and we’ll make sure, incidentally, that you don’t betray us, Christian. The supply line will be easy enough. We’ll take the planes in boats up to Eregli, then bring them overland on mules. But first I suppose we’ll have to see one of your machines demonstrated.’

‘Naturally a prototype will have to be developed.’ I picked up the money. ‘But I would guess we could do that fairly quickly.’

Orkhan Pasha placed a hand on my shoulder. He was smiling. ‘And we shall want to see you fly it. Yourself.’ He uttered a soft, well-bred laugh which acted as a suitable complement to Ethem’s snorts and roars and which, on another level, was infinitely more threatening. ‘Then we’ll know how much faith you have in yourself.’

I resented their mistrust. ‘Enough to fly my first machine. I’m sure I’ve enough to test the next. Where can I begin? Have you machine shops here?’

Orkhan touched the tips of his fingers to his forehead. ‘My friend, I believe you. There are a few repair sheds. But it would not be good to work in Ankara. Çerkes Ethem will take you to a better place.’

I subsided, realising this plot was to be kept secret from their so-called President. My anger had clouded my judgment. Now I was to be dragged even deeper into the Anatolian interior.

Çerkes Ethem put his unshaven face next to mine. ‘You can even help us raise the money. That is as it should be, eh, Christian?’

He was to play variations on this moral irony (or what he perceived as one) for at least a further week. Three miserable days later, as my pony limped over a rocky mountain track, I was convinced I had become lost forever. The trousers of my suit had worn through, my overcoat had holes in three places, my hat was virtually useless, my shirt and underwear were crawling with vermin. My shoes had fallen apart and had been wrapped with rags and strips of leather so I probably resembled a very unsuccessful bandit, a leper or a wretched Hassidic rabbi. I was plunged in gloom. The gold Ethem had initially given me was tucked into my belt. When the bazhi-bazouk rode back to the end of the column from time to time he continued to remain, in his own way, extremely friendly. I was mounted on their oldest beast, behind the supply waggon. Ethem clearly enjoyed my misery. ‘Christian, this will give you all the more incentive to build yourself a flying machine!’

No one else called me ‘Christian’ (or occasionally ‘Infidel’). I think he had a romantic notion of himself, like so many bandits, as a hero of popular fiction. His men, of course, loved him for it, probably quite as much as they would have loved Douglas Fairbanks or Rudolph Valentino had they ever had the opportunity to visit the cinema. Ethem had all the grand gestures, the flowery language, the bravado, the way of pulling at his white stallion’s reins to make it come to a swift, sliding stop. I do not believe he could read, but I was certain someone had once entertained him with the same boys’ adventure tales I had enjoyed in my childhood. His larger-than-life manner, however, almost certainly kept up the morale of his men, who were prepared to suffer any hardship or peril for him. It was easy to see why so many preferred him to the rather dour Kemal Pasha, with his notoriously long-winded sermons, his strict morality and his tendency to consider obscure political consequences. I believe Ethem was conscious of the impression he had made on his men and played it up, courting them with displays of humour and daring as another might court a woman.

For this purpose, too, I was an ideal butt for his wit. His frequent calling upon Allah to save the poor infidel, his characterising me as the very symbol of decadent city life, gave his simple-minded brutes hours of amusement. For my own part I was glad to be presently useful to his ambitions. While I remained so, I did not have to fear for my safety. He continued, nonetheless, to keep me mystified about our destination and even became reluctant to let me know which day of the week it was. I began to suspect that he had no set plan at all, but was wandering the countryside in the hope of discovering something he needed. Twice he left me in the company of the women and carts, taking his men off towards a nearby village. He returned exhilarated while behind him the object of his destruction gave off tremendous volumes of black smoke. ‘I have just financed five new flying machines!’ he announced the first time and, the second: ‘Three more planes. Christian.’

The villages were described by him either as ‘pro-Greek’ or merely ‘Armenian’. This was sufficient justification for his attacks. I suspected they were neither. Again I found myself wondering if it was to be my fate always to be the slave of some brigand. Attila was said to have kept philosophers about him for his own entertainment. But I used the time to advantage. My day-to-day knowledge of Turkish improved slightly, though most of Ethem’s men were to say the least laconic. But it had become possible for me to utter more than a simple Agim or Susadim when I was hungry or thirsty, and stand a fair chance of my more complicated notions being understood. And I began to make it clear to Ethem that time was running out. It was not cost-effective to drag me around with him on his raids like this.

When for the third time the bandit rode off towards a town he was away longer than usual. I could hear shots and what seemed to be artillery fire: a full-scale battle, in fact. Once or twice, men returned in a hurry to drag boxes of fresh ammunition up onto their horses and gallop back over the hill. Ethem had evidently grown ambitious and was attacking a more difficult position. Then, some two hours after the firing subsided, several bandits came riding back to the carts hell-for-leather. One of them dismounted and ran to bring a horse to me, ordering me into the saddle. Rather reluctantly I complied, clinging to the bridle and the mane as the horse galloped off with the others over swampy, yellow ground. I felt sick, certain I must fall, but it was not long before we reached a good-sized town, with several well defined streets, tall buildings, a railway station and a telegraph. Half its buildings were already in ruins, presumably from previous battles, and many more were just beginning to burn. There were corpses everywhere. This time I barely held back my urge to vomit.

In the main square groups of terrified citizens had fallen to their knees: they were arranged in ranks about an ornamental fountain, still placidly playing. Soaked through and grinning, Çerkes Ethem stood on the pedestal in the middle of the fountain, striking one of his more melodramatic poses. From out of a large Greek Orthodox church in the middle of a group of burning houses a line of men and women carried boxes and bundles. These people were either Greek, Armenian or both. Submissively, and to Ethem’s evident pleasure, they arranged their treasure along the edge of the fountain. His men still came and went through the smoke and the ruins, firing as they ran into buildings, whooping as they ran out. Even as I dismounted from my horse I saw one screaming young girl raped in the street by a fat bazhi-bazouk who had more trouble pulling down his breeches than controlling his prize. I averted my eyes.

Çerkes Ethem noticed my discomfort. ‘See how gladly your co-religionists pay for your machines, Christian!’ He was in his element. He shouted something in dialect to one grinning lieutenant, then splashed back through the fountain to put his arm around my shoulders. ‘These people are ignorant. You mustn’t worry about them. Now I’ll show you why we fought so hard for this town.’ He guided me out of the square and down a dusty sidestreet, pausing with a benevolent gesture to display what was left of some kind of garage. On a bench just inside lay a small petrol engine, very similar to the one I had drawn in my designs. ‘Here’s your chance. You’ll stay for a day or two and build a plane in peace. They’ll be too scared to bother you. I’ll leave a couple of men.’

Behind us the screams and firing began again. I was terrified, nodding dumbly by way of agreement and thanks. I wished desperately, with all my being, that I was not where I was, that I might never suffer such terror. How could I have escaped it in Russia merely to find myself plunged into it again in Turkey, where I had even less chance of survival? How I hated the Orient and all it meant!

Ethem patted me on the back. ‘Tell Hassan what you need.’ He beckoned a boy of about fourteen from the shadows of the workshop. Hassan smirked at me. ‘I’ll be back in three or four days. Some Greek soldiers need killing.’ With a strange, avuncular gesture, he returned to the square.

To shut out the awful sounds, which grew in variety and intensity as the day progressed, I made Hassan help me close the flimsy doors of the machine shop. I told him to bring lamps, to find people to clean the place. There were oily wood shavings on the floor, a few antiquated tools in a rack on the far wall. The place had probably been the only one in miles where people could find the services of a mechanic. Whoever had owned it had either been killed or had run away. There were very few spare parts, but a small crucible and bellows remained alive in one corner and here and there were the implements of the blacksmith’s craft, a clue to the workshop’s origins.

Thankfully, I was able to do what I had done more than once in recent years, and make myself blind and deaf to anything but the immediate job in hand. I concentrated my attention first on the engine, to see how it could be properly adapted to turn the propeller. I now knew a great deal more about aerodynamics than when I built my prototype. By that evening, when Çerkes Ethem returned, I was beginning to get some idea of my problems and how they might be solved.

‘Work well, Christian,’ he said. He placed a large, embroidered bag on the bench. ‘This will keep you going until I’m back.’ The bag was full of dead fowls, part of a lamb, a leg of a goat, all just slaughtered. I was revolted. Hassan, on the other hand, was ecstatically grateful.

The bandit left, displaying amusement as always, and a few moments later I heard him yelling to his men. There was that disturbingly familiar sound of rapid hoofbeats, followed by an equally familiar pall of silence; whereupon the wailing began.

Not much later, my spirits improved considerably, for it had struck me suddenly and with some irony, that for all his cunning Çerkes Ethem had not allowed for a simple fact: Once I built my plane I could fly clear of his disgusting horsemen and their rifles, rise as magically as any Thief of Baghdad into the clouds, mocking all below, and be in Constantinople within a matter of hours! This cheerful notion set me to working with much greater confidence and enthusiasm; no longer was I building a war-machine for Islam: I was constructing the means of my own salvation.

Over the next two days, supplied by what was left of the cocaine, I worked virtually without sleep. Hassan proved himself a conscientious if rather clumsy assistant. Trembling wood-carvers and carpenters were brought to me by the guards Ethem had left behind. I had seamstresses. The whole town (or at least its survivors) was at my disposal and as a result it was not long before almost every piece of equipment was assembled. Parts which could not be found or adapted were forged in the crucible. The propeller, of some local hardwood, was turned and polished to perfection, exactly as I had specified; the wings would have made Daedalus himself envious. It was remarkable how those townspeople lent themselves to the work (especially the Greeks and Armenians); it was as if some dim racial memory drove them to their task of aiding me in my escape from that modern equivalent of the Cretan monster. I became impressed by the correspondences as I worked, thinking that whereas Daedalus had built Minos a labyrinth, the maze I built my captors was one of illusion and abstraction in which they themselves might with chance become lost.

I now realised I might easily be ready to escape before the bandit chief returned. The machine, almost the cause of my destruction, was to become my salvation. I would certainly demonstrate its efficiency! With Ethem’s gold in my pockets, I would not only soar away from this desolate place but would arrive back to amaze Constantinople’s entire population! I would glide between the minarets of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque; I would alight on the Galata Tower, on Leander’s Tower, on all the towers of Byzantium and the air would be filled with the murmur of their wondering voices, the hum of my glittering screw. I would receive so much publicity I would never need more. When I offered my valuable information to the British I should have an open visa to any country in Europe. It would give me intense personal satisfaction to denounce Count Siniutkin for the traitor and spy he was.

By the morning of the third day there was no news of Ethem’s return. The hush of hopelessness which had fallen over the town was gradually changing to the ordinary sounds of domestic life, though the faces of the population remained utterly expressionless, reminding me of masks in some old Attic tragedy. Carefully, I tested each part of the machine. Then I assembled it on the bench and had Hassan pour in a little fuel. The engine turned sweetly; the propeller whirled as smooth as steel through oil. I had the wings strapped on to me, as well as the frame which would take engine and blade. I ensured I would be able to direct myself wherever I wished to go. I had made some important modifications. What had happened to me in Babi Yar would not happen in Turkey. When I was satisfied, I ordered a party of local men to carry my equipment carefully to the nearby wool exchange overlooking the fountain and the Greek church, this being the tallest and most substantial building still in one piece.

I could not believe my good fortune! As we reached the wide, flat roof which looked out over the rest of the town towards the featureless Anatolian plain, I barely stopped myself from revealing my glee to Hassan and the other bandits. The boy and the men helped strap the engine onto my shoulders. The propeller of this machine was mounted higher than on my previous design so I could be confident I should suffer no concussion this time. The wings of this model were a little larger; but essentially it was the same plane I had tested in Kiev. It was, of course, fifty years ahead of its time. Today the powered hang-glider is only a slight modification of my original specifications (but predictably I receive no credit, the conspiracy of silence is complete). I thought how privileged this little group of bandits and Turkish townspeople were. They were witnessing the first flight of its kind outside Russia. I steadied myself beneath the weight of the machine. This weight would effectively decrease, of course, once I was airborne, but it was fairly difficult to stand up on the ground. Now I was prepared to take to the skies and show my enemies what foolish, ignorant men they truly were!

I had not allowed, of course, for the profound cunning of the Turkish mind. When I had taken up my position, ready to run the length of the roof before I launched myself into the air, I told Hassan to spin the propeller. There came nothing but a coughing sound from the engine overhead. I ordered him to spin it again. I was beginning to run with sweat as the sun climbed higher.

‘Hassan, you little fool! What’s wrong?’

He shook his head and put all his power into another pull on the propeller, nearly overbalancing me altogether. The remaining men muttered amongst themselves and chuckled. I ordered them dismissed. Reluctantly they climbed back down through the door in the roof. Now I was alone with Hassan who stood mutely by, his brown eyes round and blank.

‘Again!’

This time the propeller turned twice. I started to run, but had hardly moved a yard or so before the engine died once more.

I was baffled. Everything had tested perfectly. I asked Hassan if he had put more petrol in the tank.

At this the boy let his jaw fall and he shrugged, as if I had said something amazing to him. ‘Of course not, master!’

I swore at him. ‘You’re a cretin. Get the can.’

He shook his head rapidly, wringing his hands, his eyes shifting in every direction, ‘I cannot.’

‘It’s back in the shop. You know where!’ I was exasperated. ‘Hurry, boy!’

‘It’s all gone, effendi.’ He turned his eyes away. He looked towards the railway line. There was smoke on the horizon. He frowned.

The sun was burning my head and the engine, which should by now have lifted me into the air, was making my back ache horribly. I almost fainted as I stumbled towards the boy, begging him to fetch the petrol, threatening him with a thousand punishments, screaming at him that he would roast in Hell. But nothing moved him. All he did was stay just out of my reach, shake his head and say occasionally, ‘It is all gone!’

Eventually, of course, it dawned on me. Ethem was by no means the fool I had assumed him to be. He had left Hassan specific instructions to let me get as far as this but no further. The petrol would not be forthcoming until he could be certain of trusting me.

‘Benzin!’ I croaked imploringly. ‘A sovereign for just one can! Nobody will know.’

Staggering under the weight of the engine, waddling and bent like a hunchbacked penguin, I moved away from the edge of the roof. Below in the square a crowd had gathered and was looking up. Some of the faces had become almost animated, like spectators at a circus. A few voices shouted at me to begin. They were growing impatient. I half expected them to applaud. No matter how much I yelled at Hassan he would not change his single response, ‘It is all gone, effendi.’

I had not designed the equipment so that I could easily unstrap myself. My legs began to buckle. I was shaking in every part of me, was close to tears as my voice grew hoarse from imploring the boy’s help. More frequently now Hassan’s eyes went to the horizon. The smoke grew fuller. There was a locomotive somewhere up the track, still out of sight. It was then I thought I heard the rattle of machine-gun fire in the distance. With considerable difficulty and not a little pain, I turned in the direction of the sound. Just detectable on the ridge above the swampy plain was what could only be a squadron of tanks. They had the blue and white flag of Greece emblazoned on their sides, but they were British Mark IIIs in all their glory. And running behind them on two sides, with their bayonets fixed, I could see some three hundred Greek soldiers, firing as they charged.

From the town, the remaining bandits were trying to set up some sort of barricade. Clearly they had not expected such an attack. They moved hastily, in panic, cursing each other and shaking their fists at the Greeks. Two or three were already on their horses and fleeing in the opposite direction.

I panted now, the pain increasing with every breath. I felt as if I were being crucified: crucified on the cross of my own imagination. Hassan stared at me uncertainly. Then, with a look almost of pitying apology, he turned away. He ran towards the steps, pausing for a moment to watch me. I begged him to come back, if only to undo a couple of straps. I fell on my face, struggling to free myself from the constricting harness of the flying machine but becoming more entangled at every spasm. I was doubly desperate. I had no guarantee the Greeks or the British would not take me for a traitor, deliberately selling arms to the Turks.

Hassan disappeared below.

I let out a howl of terror which something pragmatic in my unconscious almost immediately turned into a song. When the Greeks finally found me on the roof I was beginning again on the second verse of Blake’s Jerusalem.