surrendering, and letting in the Dervish without a fight,” he barked.
Now the soldiers shouted, “We are faithful to the Divine Mahdi.”
“There is one God, and Muhammad, the Mahdi, is his prophet.”
“Enter, O ye faithful, and spare us, for we are your brothers in Allah.”
They swung open the gates and a horde of jibba-clad figures swarmed in. The first of the Dervish warriors chopped down the Egyptian traitors ruthlessly, and their bodies were trampled by the rush of hundreds of feet as the courtyard filled with the attackers. Many were carrying burning torches and the flickering yellow light of the flames lit up the horrific scene. David was about to shut and bolt the door before they were discovered, but at that moment a solitary figure appeared at the head of the stone staircase that overlooked the courtyard. Fascinated, David continued to peer through the chink.
General Charles Gordon was in full dress uniform. He prided himself on his ability to impress the savage and the barbarian. He had taken time to dress even when he heard the pandemonium in the streets. He wore his decorations but carried no weapon other than a light cane: he was fully aware of the danger of antagonizing the men he was trying to placate.
Calmly, the hypnotic gaze of those sapphire eyes glinting in the torchlight, he held up his hands to quell the uproar. To David this seemed futile but, astonishingly, an unnatural quiet descended on the courtyard. Gordon kept both arms raised, like a conductor controlling an unschooled orchestra. His voice was strong and unruffled, as he spoke good but heavily accented Arabic: “I wish to speak to your master, the Mahdi,” he announced.
The listeners stirred like a field of dhurra when a breeze sweeps through it, but nobody answered him. His voice was sharper and more masterful when he spoke next he had sensed he was taking control. “Who among you is your leader? Let him step forward.”
A tall, strikingly handsome figure stepped from the mob. He wore the green turban of an emir, and mounted the first step of the staircase. “I am the Emir Osman Atalan of the Beja, and these are my aggagiers.”
“I have heard of you,” Gordon said. “Come up to me.”
“Gordon Pasha, you will give no more orders to any son of Islam, for this is the last day of your life.”
“Utter no threats, Emir Atalan. The thought of death troubles me not at all.”
“Then come down these stairs and meet it like a man, and not a cringing infidel dog.”
For another few seconds Chinese Gordon stared down at him haughtily. Watching from the darkness of the doorway, David wondered what was going on in that cold, precise mind. Was there not, even now, a shadow of doubt or a flutter of fear? Gordon showed neither emotion as he started down the staircase. He stepped as precisely and confidently as if he were on a parade ground. He reached the step above Osman Atalan and stopped, facing him.
Osman studied his face, then said quietly, “Yes, Gordon Pasha. I see you are indeed a brave man.” And he thrust the full length of his blade through Gordon’s belly. In almost the same movement he drew it out again, and changed to a double-handed grip. The pale blue light in Gordon’s eyes flickered like a candle flame in the wind, his cold granite features seemed to fall in upon themselves like melting beeswax. He struggled to remain upright, but the flame of his turbulent life was flickering out. Slowly his legs gave way under him. Osman waited for him with the sword poised. Gordon sagged forward from the waist and Osman swung his sword two-handed, aiming unerringly at the base of his neck. The blade made a sharp snick as it parted the vertebrae and Gordon’s head fell away like the heavy fruit of the durian tree. It struck the stone stair with a solid thump, and rolled down to the courtyard. Osman stooped, took a handful of the thick curls and, ignoring the blood that splashed down the front of his jibba, held the head aloft to show it to his aggagiers. “This head is our gift to the Divine Mahdi. The prophecy is fulfilled. The will and the word of Allah govern all of creation.”
A single abrupt roar went up to the night sky: “God is great!” Then, in the silence that followed, Osman spoke again: “You have made a gift to Muhammad, the Mahdi. Now he returns a gift to you. For ten days this city, all its treasures and the people in it are yours to deal with as you wish.”
David waited to hear no more, and while the full attention of the Dervish was on their emir, he closed and bolted the door. He gathered the women about him, settled Amber’s head more comfortably against his shoulder and led them back through the scullery, past the pantries and the entrance to the wine cellars to the small door that led to the servants’ quarters. As they hurried along they could hear behind them the crash of breaking furniture. The women looked up fearfully at the sound of running footsteps from the floor above as the Dervish rampaged through the palace. David struggled briefly with the servants’ door before he could open it and lead them out into the night air.
They reached the entrance to the reeking sanitary lane that ran along the back wall of the palace. Along it stood stacks of the night-soil buckets. They had not been collected for months and the odour of excrement was overpowering. This was a place so unclean that any devout Muslim would avoid it assiduously so they could afford to pause for a few moments. While they regained their breath, they heard gunfire and shouting in the streets beyond the boundary wall, and in the palace they had just left.
“What shall we do now, Daddy?” Rebecca asked.
“I do not know,” David admitted. Amber groaned and he stroked her head. “They are all around us. There does not seem to be any avenue of escape.”
“Ryder Courtney has his steamer ready in the canal. But we must go quickly, or he will set sail without us.”
“Which road to reach him is safest?” David’s breathing was laboured.
“We must keep clear of the waterfront. The Dervish will certainly be looting the big houses along the corniche.”
“Yes of course. You are right.”
“We must go through the native quarter.”
“Lead the way!” he said.
Rebecca grabbed Saffron’s hand. “Nazeera take the other.”
The women ran down the narrow alley between the buckets. David , ploughed along heavily behind them. When they reached the far end of the lane Rebecca paused to make certain that the street ahead was empty. Then they ran to the next corner. Once more she checked the ground ahead. They went on like this, a stage at a time. Twice, Rebecca spotted groups of rampaging Dervish coming towards them, and was just quick enough to lead them down a side alley. Eventually they came out behind the rear of the Belgian consulate. Here they were forced to a halt to avoid another gang of Dervish, who were breaking into the building. They were using a pew from the Catholic cathedral as a battering ram. The tall carved doors gave way and the Dervish burst in.
Rebecca looked around for another escape route. Before she could find one the aggagiers dragged the portly figure of Consul Le Blanc through the shattered doors into the street. He was squealing like a piglet on its way to the abattoir. Although he fought and struggled, he was no match for the lean and sinewy warriors. They pinned him down on his back in the middle of the road, and ripped off his clothing. When he was naked one knelt beside him with a drawn dagger. He took a handful of Le Blanc’s hairy scrotum, and stretched it out as though it was india- rubber. With one stroke of the dagger he sliced it away, leaving a gaping hole in the base of the pale, pendulous belly. Roaring with laughter the men who held him forced Le Blanc’s jaws open with the handles of their daggers and stuffed his testicles into his mouth, gagging his shrieks. Then they completed the ritual mutilation by lopping off his hands and feet at wrists and ankles. When they were finished with him, they left him writhing on the ground, and rushed back into the consulate building to join the pillage. Le Blanc struggled up and sat like some grotesque statue of Buddha, clumsily trying to remove the flaccid sack of his scrotum from his mouth with his bleeding stumps.
“Sweet Jesus, how horrible!” Rebecca’s voice was husky with pity. “Poor Monsieur!” She started to go to his aid.
“Don’t! They will have you also.” David’s voice was choked not so much with pity, as with the brutal effort of running so far with Amber in his arms. “There is nothing we can do for him. We can try only to save ourselves. Becky darling, we must keep going. Don’t look back.”
They ducked down another alley, forced ever deeper into the warren of huts and hovels of the native quarter and further off the direct route to Ryder Courtney’s compound. After another few hundred yards David came up short, like an old stag run to a standstill by the hounds. His face was twisted with pain and sweat dripped from his chin.
“Daddy, are you all right?” Rebecca had turned back to him.
