'I will go out and call this rabble to order.' 'No!' Aimec cried, seizing his arm. 'No. They would hack you to pieces.'
Prince Mahmoud's fine eyes had lost their mild look.
Thrusting out his bearded chin, he shouted, 'A scimitar. Find me a scimitar so that I may die righting.'
'No weapons will help us,' said Roger sharply. 'While we still have the chance, we must escape. Come! Which way do we go?'
The Chief of the Black Eunuchs shook his head. 'There is no way, Monsieur. All three courts are swarming with Janissaries. A handful of loyal men are holding the passage that leads to the Sultan Valide's courtyard. But very soon they must be overcome.'
Aimee clasped her hands, lifted her eyes to heaven and exclaimed, 'Holy Virgin, protect us.'
Selim shrugged. 'Prayer is now useless, dear Naksh. As it is written in the Koran, "the fate of every man is bound about his brow". We are trapped, and it is our fate that we should die here.'
The Hovering Hand of Death
It was the 29th May. Ever since the 20th, the day on which they had gone on the expedition to Rumcli Hisar and returned to hear the Janissaries beating on their kettles, the fear that really serious trouble was brewing in the Seraglio had never been far from Roger's mind.
During the sixteen days that the French mission had been in Constantinople, he had spent by far the greater part of his time either with a few of his brother officers or, accompanied only by Achmet, wandering about the city. As a secret agent of long standing, it had become second nature to him to acquire all the information he could about how the people in whichever country he was in regarded their government. His Turkish having become fluent, he had been able to chat with men of all conditions, and by inference rather than definite expressions of opinion, he had become convinced of two things. The Sultan was unpopular with only the rich, who stood to lose by his reforms, but people of every class united in lamenting his weakness in dealing with the Janissaries.
They had become entirely lawless and terrorised the city. In full daylight they held up and demanded money from people in the streets; bands of them raided and pillaged shops; they abducted and raped women; they even broke into harems. Yet no action was taken against them. It followed that if their revolt succeeded, Constantinople would become the scene of wholesale massacre and looting.
Faced with this immediate and unexpected crisis, it flashed into Roger's mind that if only he could get away he might yet save the situation. Once out of the Palace it would not be difficult to reach the French Embassy. Gardane was an intelligent and resolute man. The staffs of the other Embassies could be counted on to help. Urgent messages could be sent to the barracks of other troops who were jealous of the Janissaries' privileges, and to the Mullahs who, from their minarets, would rouse the people. Their smouldering hatred would burst into flame. In their tens of thousands they would attack the Palace, overwhelm the lawless brigands from whom they had suffered for so long and, perhaps, even save Aimee, the Sultan and her son.
But how to get away? Instantly a possibility came to him. Thrusting Son Altesse Noire aside, he ran from the room into Aimee's library. The others followed, to find him crouched in the wide hearth, looking up the big chimney. Few of the buildings in the Seraglio were more than one storey in height. Fifteen feet above him he could sec stars in the clear heaven. 'Swinging round, he cried:
'I'm going up! I'll get away across the roofs and bring help.'
'May the Prophet bless you!' exclaimed Prince Mahmoud. 'But we must come, too, or we'll be murdered long before you can return to us.'
'You're right,' Roger replied. 'But. we'll need a rope to haul the women up. Where can we find one?' Hastily he glanced round, but could see nothing suitable.
Next moment the Prince muttered, 'Use this,' and began rapidly unwinding his turban. Roger realised, in the minute or more it took to do this that, sweet-natured and artistic though Mahmoud might be, he was a far more resolute man than Selim, who was standing silent, paler than ever and with drooping shoulders.
Grabbing the end of the long, thick swathe of muslin, Roger tied it to his belt. As the other end came free, the Black Eunuch seized it and was about to knot it round the Sultan's waist.
'Stop!' snapped Roger. Then, forgetting himself in the excitement of the moment, he added, 'In England there is an unwritten law, "Women and children first".' Snatching the turban from the eunuch, he lashed it swiftly under Aimee's arms above her breasts.
Already they could hear the sound of clashing scimitars and screams of wounded men, coming from the Sultan Valide's courtyard, so none of them noticed the faux pas Roger had made by implying admiration for the English.
Diving into the chimney, he braced his back, feet and elbows against the soot-blackened walls. To wriggle his way up was far harder than he had expected. Although the chimney was only fifteen feet in height, by the time he was half-way up he feared he would never reach the top; but it gradually narrowed, lessening the strain on his shoulders and ankles. Thrusting up his hands, he managed to grasp the rim of the opening overhead. One final heave, and his head was clear of the chimney rim. For a moment he hung there, panting, then scrambled out on to the roof.
Up there, the sound of shots, wild warcries and fighting came much more clearly to him. The whole vast Topkapi Palace, usually so unnaturally silent, was in a state of pandemonium. Swiftly he turned, shouted down the chimney and began to haul upon the turban rope. Aimee had lost no time in following him into the wide hearth below, but as he took the strain, his heart suddenly misgave him.
She was not a tall woman and had retained the beautifully-moulded, girlish figure that had been one of her many attractions, so he would have guessed her weight to be not more than eight stone; but she seemed to weigh half a ton. Now he cursed himself for his impetuosity. He should have had Prince Mahmoud or the big Negro climb up after him, then the two of them could, without great difficulty, have hauled the others up.
But it was too late to think of that now. Any moment Yussif and the other loyal eunuchs who were defending the doorway giving on to the Court might be overcome and the murderous Janissaries burst into the library below.
Roger heaved on the thick, muslin rope. It lifted Aimee a foot or so. He heaved again and gained another foot. But the rope was cutting into his hands so painfully that he could have screamed. He now knew that he would never be able to pull her up the whole fifteen feet this way. But, whatever happened to the others, somehow he had got to get Aimee out.
After a moment's agonising thought, he let the rope slide back until her feet again took her own weight. Turning his back to the chimney he drew the slack rope over his right shoulder, then twisted it round both his wrists. Clasping his hands together in front of him, he took the strain again and, head down, threw his whole weight forward. The rope cut fiercely into his shoulder and only by swiftly clutching at his belt was he able to keep his wrists from flying up into his face.
With the sweat streaming from him, he fought his way forward step by step across the roof. At the very moment he felt he could endure the strain no longer, there came a cry behind him, and the fierce pressure of the rope on his shoulder eased a little. He held his position for another half-minute, then the rope went slack. Turning, he saw with a gasp of triumph that Aimee was out on the roof.
By the time he staggered to her, she had undone her end of the rope and was lowering it. Pushing past her, he shouted down the chimney. 'Prince Mahmoud next. And he must climb as ... as I did. Use the rope only . . . only as a help. I... I haven't the strength left to pull Fatima up.'