Pasha

CHAPTER 7

THE LARGE, SQUARE, UNSPRUNG COACH lurched and rattled as it approached the Ottoman capital. It was a hired carriage of the best that could be mustered for an English lord but was sadly lacking the refinements to be expected at Eskdale and smelt dank, of old leather and ancient grime.

Behind, a covered wagon followed with the impedimenta of the expedition, then the bulk of the entourage clutching the side of a large cart of exotic appearance, and a few on horseback. In front trotted their hired escort, a troop of Turkish cavalry. It had been pressed on them by the Pasha of Murath, horrified that an English noble crossing his territory was in danger of being robbed with consequences to himself if the Porte got to hear of it.

Renzi rode in stately isolation but for Ackworth, his secretary. He had chosen the man himself: a petty, shrewish and self-important individual, he would be oblivious to the implications of what was going on around him and have no curiosity about it either. Ideal for what he was about to do.

Jago had understood what was wanted in the other staff. It was the minimum required: the quiet Golding was his valet, assisted by Miller, a strong young man acting as general servant and footman; his cook was Henri, a second-generation Lincolnshire man with absurd claims to French ancestry.

As was the custom, local hirelings were taken on for domestics; Lord Farndon, of course, was not to be troubled in this matter. Jago, with his talent for communication and the smoothing of cultural difficulties, ably took charge.

It had worked well and a camaraderie of Englishmen together in foreign parts had grown.

Renzi had his support retinue. The rest was up to him.

At Bayrampasa, the city walls came into view. The fabulous and mythical Constantinople lay ahead. They stopped at a last han, a roadside hostelry.

It was time to set the mission in motion. To achieve a foothold in the city, Renzi knew he had to make a presence in the shortest possible time. A galloper from the Turkish troop was sent bearing a courteous note to inform Arbuthnot, the ambassador, that Constantinople was about to host an English earl.

Renzi settled down to await events, changing from his plain but serviceable travelling clothes to the rich coat and breeches expected of a noble visitor.

When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a dignified Turk, with a lined face and neatly trimmed black beard. His jewelled turban proclaimed him someone of consequence.

Miller held his horse while he dismounted. After a low bow in the European fashion, the man stood before Renzi.

“My name is Doruk Zorlu, lord,” he said, in good English. “And I am first secretary to his excellency.”

“Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall. I’m here to-”

“Fahn’ton Pasha. I have to tell you that his excellency cannot entertain you. He is … is no longer in Constantinople.”

“Rest assured, I am in no hurry, Mr Zorlu.”

The man took a step closer and said, in a troubled voice, “Pasha, it is not safe for you here. I must ask you to go back. There is feeling against the English, a rising up of the people against them.”

“I will take that risk. Thank you for telling me.”

“No! You must not stay!”

Renzi felt a prick of unease. “Pray why not?”

“Pasha, the ambassador and all the English have this day left Constantinople in a ship. They fear that they’ll be taken hostage by the sultan for security against an attack by the British.”

“What? This is madness! We are allies, friends of the sultan.”

“It is a rumour only, but the people are listening to anything. You must go.”

Renzi froze. This meant that in the war of influence the French had all but succeeded. With a clear field and the sultan’s ear it would be only a matter of time and they would complete Bonaparte’s plan.

Was there anything he could do to stop it happening? Was it too late?

His duty, however, was plain. In view of the colossal stakes, his safety was of secondary importance; he had to make the attempt.

“Oh dear. This is dreadful news,” he said sorrowfully. “Dreadful. And I was so looking forward to my travels in Asia Minor. There is a service I’d greatly appreciate, Mr Zorlu. I’m so very fatigued after my journey and must rest. Have you knowledge of an inn of repute where I might stay in safety?”

Zorlu looked at him steadily. “You plan to remain in Constantinople then, Fahn’ton Pasha.”

“For a short while. Until this little unpleasantness is over.”

“Very well. Then there is a suggestion I have that I’m sure would be what the ambassador would wish. Pasha, there is a guest suite within the embassy in Pera. You and your retinue shall be accommodated there.”

“That is most kind in you, Mr Zorlu. I accept with thanks.”

Renzi eased down in the vast marble bath with weariness. A hesitant Golding waited with towels but the burly attendants, stripped to the waist, were having none of it. He was helped to a nearby slab and the pair set about pummelling and slapping until his aches had dissolved in a flood of pleasure.

It took an effort of will to resist the temptation to let anxieties and concerns recede and resign himself to rest, but he couldn’t. Not with matters reaching a climax as they were.

He dressed and asked Zorlu to join him in the guest-suite reception room.

Pleasantries were exchanged, then Zorlu asked, “Pasha, your unworthy servant begs forgiveness for his impertinence in asking your reasons for visiting us.”

He lowered his head politely and Renzi could see no hint of the import of his question in his eyes. But he had made up his mind to trust no one.

“I flatter myself that I am a scholar of some merit and, having heard of the discoveries at Gordion, I have a desire to see them at the first hand.”

“I understand, lord. If there is any office I may provide it would be my honour to serve you.”

Was that an edge of deeper understanding, an intimation of complicity?

Renzi was not sure but his mission was not to be risked in a misplaced trust. Yet the man was still loyal to his English employers, evidenced by his remaining in post where many would have fled. His account of the situation might well be worth hearing.

Renzi motioned him to a chair.

The French, it seemed, had for many years desired influence at the court of the Ottoman sultan, Selim III, and to this end had lavished gifts and attention on him. It had all counted for nothing: in 1798 Bonaparte had invaded Ottoman Egypt, bent on conquest and empire, destroying years of intrigue. Offended, the Sublime Porte had appealed to the British and the result had been a treaty of friendship and alliance that still existed-just.

At the peace of Amiens in 1802 Bonaparte had industriously set about restoring relations. This time it was not merely presents but military advisers, training battalions, even cannon. The sultan had formed a new branch of his army, trained in the latest methods by the French, and was looking to build on it a new and reformed military. He therefore had every interest in cultivating a close relationship and was known to admire Napoleon the Conqueror.

The most formidable of these was the energetic and capable French ambassador. A serving general and favourite of Bonaparte, Horace Sebastiani was young, intelligent, wily and ruthless in his furthering of French influence. He had captured the attention of Selim and was feared and admired by those in his court. His thrust and resolution in acting for what he desired made him a deadly opponent.

Renzi nodded. This was valuable to know, even if it showed just what titanic obstacles he himself faced. However there must be an entry point into the situation-the French were not yet in control.

The central figure in the whole drama had to be Selim III himself.

From their conquest of the old Byzantine Empire in 1453 onwards, the Ottoman sultans had reigned supreme and unchallenged. And with absolute power, in a manner that had not changed in centuries.

The sultan ruled from his palace through the Divan, a parliament of advisers, headed by the grand vizier. His religious advisers were the Ulema, a body of scholars; the military were dominated by the Janissaries, an elite corps of household troops and bodyguards whose origins were lost in time but whose power and jealously guarded privileges had steadily increased.

The outside world barely touched the existence of the sultan for he remained securely within the magnificence of the great Topkapi Palace where all the instruments of rule were concentrated, with the imperial domestics-from vast kitchens to the mysteries of the seraglio.

And within the grand edifice seethed plots and counter-plots, treachery and guile beyond anything seen in Europe since medieval times. Yet if Renzi was going to counter the French success he had to penetrate to the very heart of it all.

“Mr Zorlu.”

“Zorlu Bey,” the man said, with a short bow.

“Zorlu Bey. This has been a most gratifying discussion. Your powers of summary do you credit and-”

They were interrupted by a footman, who whispered briefly to Zorlu. There was a tone of unease in his voice as he told Renzi, “A gentleman of the palace, Mustafa Tayyar Efendi, has arrived and craves audience with you. Will you see him?”

“What do you counsel?”

“I know him well. The man is of the Reis-ul Kuttab, which you will know as the foreign ministry under the grand vizier. Undoubtedly he comes to see with his own eyes an Englishman who dares to remain in Constantinople at this time. I cannot advise other than not to say anything you do not want to be made instantly known throughout the palace.”

He was an imposing figure, with a ridiculously tall white hat, gold-embroidered robe, ceremonial staff and upturned slippers twinkling with jewels.

His voice was deep and commanding, speaking directly to Renzi.

“He introduces himself, lord.”

“Pray tell him my name and style.”

It was received with an elegant Oriental bow and an immediate reply.

“He asks in the name of Sultan Selim your business in Constantinople,” Zorlu smoothly relayed.

“I rest for a space before I venture to Gordion to admire the new-found tumulus of Midas the king.”

“He confesses he has not heard of this and wonders how such can engage the attention of a noble lord in far England.”

“Do explain that I am a species of scholar sent by the Royal Society to uncover new knowledge of man and his works. I would be much gratified if while I’m here he should effect an introduction of me to any learned philosopher or antiquarian who might assist in this important work.”

“He asks if you are aware that the English have fled Turkey since the threat of their fleet on our shores has been repulsed.”

“I am sorry to hear of it. This is a tiresome distraction but I shall remain here until this distasteful affair passes, as it most assuredly will, before I venture further into the country.”

“He wishes you well of your quest and offers his assistance if required.

“By this, Fahn’ton Pasha, we can know that Mustafa Tayyar Efendi is satisfied with your explanation.”

If the palace knew of his presence then it must be assumed that the French, namely Sebastiani, would, too.

Their response would depend on what they perceived in him. As sons of the revolution, their estimate of him as a nobleman would hopefully be as a despised and leeching fop, no threat to anyone. If not, then his small reputation as a dilettante scholar might pass muster as reason for his presence. If neither …

Renzi felt the creeping insidiousness of personal danger steal into his bowels.

The game had started: there was no going back now.

The next move must be to make himself known to the sultan. That would not only deter the French from a crude “disappearance” but he would have a foot in the door, a first step in redressing the insanely unfair odds against him.

But how?

Nothing suggested itself immediately but a day later Zorlu came to him with an ornate missive and a smile. “Lord, you have been invited to meet the sultan at the Gate of Felicity in the Palace of Topkapi.”

“What does this mean, do you think?” Renzi asked, thunderstruck at the sudden turn of events. Why would Sultan Selim take notice of him at this early point-and grant him a hearing?

Zorlu was not perturbed. “It is politeness only. As a personage of rank you have a right to be among those others who tender their respects to His Imperial Majesty at this time. You should go-your absence would be remarked, Fahn’ton Pasha.”

“Others?”

“You will be one of scores of dignitaries, only some of whom will be noticed. This is the occasion when Sultan Selim makes audience with foreigners. Nothing is expected of outlanders other than they show due respect to the person of the sultan.”

It was therefore nothing personal: he would be one among many.

“There is one matter, Fahn’ton Pasha, that requires you decide first.”

“Which is?”

“It is customary in Constantinople for all those at an eminence, whether in commerce, diplomacy or at a rank in society, to appoint a dragoman. This gentleman is more than a reliable translator, he is an adviser on matters cultural and procedural for his patron. Yet it is my duty to you to point out that by his position he will necessarily know your business confidences and movements and speak what he will to the other. Your trust in him therefore must be absolute.”

This was advice that could not be ignored. Setting aside all other concerns he was effectively at the mercy of whatever the dragoman said. And if ever he was miraculously able to speak freely to the sultan then it would always be through this man, who would have the potential to spy, blackmail or betray him.

“You are quite right, of course, Zorlu Bey. Is it possible that you’d perform this service for myself at all?”

“Pasha, I am desolated to inform you that I cannot see how I can accept. As principal aide to his excellency, the continued business of the embassy in his absence must be my main concern. I do hope you will understand.”

And the paltry affairs of a passing lord were not of importance.

Decisions were being rushed on him and he didn’t like it-but there was no alternative.

“This places me in a difficult situation, Zorlu Bey. It forces me to decide whether or not to-”

“Whether … to tell me why you are really here.”

He paused. The man was both intelligent and penetrating-too much so?

“Why should I trust you, Zorlu?”

“Because my father would honour you for it.”

“Your father?”

“Unhappily now deceased, lord. He admired the nobility above all things and would greatly wish I could be judged worthy of the confidences of an earl.”

“Go on.”

“He was a merchant factor from Oldham in Lancashire, who, sent as agent here, fell in love with a Persian slave-girl. I have been three times to England to see his family and to London as well. It may be truly said that I … love your country.”

It was an admission that could have him decapitated or worse-but it explained his excellent English, his patience with a feckless noble and his continued loyalty to an ambassador who had fled his duty.

Renzi made up his mind that he would trust the man-quite literally-with his life.

Trying not to be overawed by the sheer scale of the palace, surrounded by walls miles long, Lord Farndon was ushered into a vast courtyard, shaded by trees and with pleasant paths leading through landscaped grasslands to groups of buildings.

“The first courtyard,” murmured Zorlu.

It was lined with soldiers in turbans of different kinds and flamboyant uniforms of exotic colours, each with an ornamented hewing knife thrust into a gold-threaded sash. Their eyes followed the visitors, arrogant and cruel.

“Janissaries. The most feared warriors in the land.”

Ahead lay a rectangular inner walled structure, from what Renzi could see of it, at least a quarter of a mile long. A gate with two pointed towers led inside.

“The main palace. And just on your right, Fahn’ton Pasha, over there …” He pointed to a modest square tower with a small fountain at its base. “It is where the executioner washes his hands and sword after a decapitation.”

The Gate of Salutation led into the second courtyard, grassed and planted with trees, too, but with strutting peacocks and small deer. At a distance was a second gate, set out from colonnades and greatly ornamented with a broad canopy and dome. It was thronged with people.

“Fahn’ton Pasha. This is now the Bab-us Saadet, the Gate of Felicity, where the sultan will see us. Beyond is the third courtyard, which is forbidden to all-even the grand vizier must seek permission to go further. It contains the sultan’s private walks, the treasury and Grand Throne Room, with its audience chamber. Further still is the fourth courtyard and the harem, and as well the Privy Chamber with the sacred relics.”

At the Gate of Felicity were a number of courtiers as well as soldiers. Renzi instantly noted a tight grouping of foreigners, from their dress French. His mouth dried as he saw them break off their conversations but he affected not to notice them and turned to admire the buildings to the left. “Which are they?” he asked Zorlu.

“That is the Imperial Council Hall where the Divan meets under the offices of the grand vizier, lord.”

He glanced at the French once more. They were still watching him but there was movement along the colonnaded passage and they turned to face the new arrivals, more Janissaries, who formed a large hollow square around the front of the gate canopy. Oddly none seemed armed.

Inside the square, courtiers began assembling in solemn conclave, the grand vizier tall and imperious with his staff of office. Under the canopy a thick green carpet was unrolled and a golden throne positioned on it.

“These are the viziers,” Zorlu said quietly. “Come to make report after our audience. If it is good they leave with rich gifts. If not, the sultan will ask his eunuchs to strangle them. It concentrates their minds wonderfully.”

Almost without warning, there was a sudden scattering of courtiers and grandees and a figure appeared from the recesses of the inner courtyard. Bejewelled with gold and pearls beyond counting, he wore a crimson robe edged with ermine and a snow-white turban.

Looking to the right and left, his robes tended by page-boys, he moved into view, acknowledging with slight nods the deep obeisance on all sides.

This was Selim III, sultan and absolute ruler of the Ottoman Empire-and Renzi’s only chance of checking French ambitions.

He assumed the throne, a slender, mild-faced but dark-bearded man of some sensitivity. He looked around-the grand vizier approached, genuflected and addressed him elaborately. On cue, the entire assembly made obeisance while a quavering chanting carried on and on.

Then all rose and the first foreign dignitary was brought forward by two viziers. A central European, in voluminous Oriental trousers and short, highly ornamented waistcoat, he bowed every few yards until he dropped to his knees before the sultan.

Renzi was too far away to take in all the details of the etiquette but he decided he would treat the sultan as he would his own sovereign.

Another was placed before Selim, a dark-featured central Asian.

As Renzi watched he became aware of two courtiers appearing at either side of him. Zorlu spoke sharply to them until they fell back slightly. They had been summoned.

With the utmost grace and courtliness Renzi stepped forward, gave a studied and elegant bow and raised his eyes to meet the sultan’s.

He was regarded with mild interest but the entire court was still and watchful. He felt the flanking courtiers grasp his wrists firmly-did they think he would run away?

The sultan spoke in a pleasant baritone.

“His Majesty is pleased to see an Englishman once again, they having lately deserted his realm,” Zorlu translated. “And one at some eminence. He desires to know what it is that has led you to Constantinople at this time.”

Renzi allowed a touch of wonder and gratification to show as he bowed an acknowledgement. “Tell him that as an English lord I am sensible of the honour he is according me.”

It was relayed on and was rewarded with a civil nod.

“Say to him I am a scholar of mean repute, but when the discovery of the tumulus of King Midas was announced, our Royal Society saw fit to dispatch me without delay to Gordion to make report.”

There was a flicker of interest. “His Majesty was not aware of any learned gentleman visiting his domains. As an admirer of culture and erudition and a dabbler in composing and literature himself, he wonders how long your visit to Constantinople will be.”

“Having reached Turkey overland, I am a little fatigued and must rest but then intend to cross to Asia Minor and Gordion.”

A gracious inclination of the head.

“He prays that Allah will reward your scholarly diligence.”

The audience was at an end and, with every courtly elegance, Renzi retired.

“How was it?” he whispered to Zorlu, when they had regained the anonymity of the press of people.

“Tolerably well, lord. It is not impossible that you will be given a gift of worthy antiquarian volumes or other, but you have succeeded in the first imperative: he’s noticed you and we may now say you exist.”

“Why did they hold my arms?”

“To prevent you seizing a concealed dagger and falling upon the person of the sultan.”

“And if-”

Their path was barred by three French dignitaries, each wearing a sword. The one in the centre swept down in an elegant leg.

“Je suis desole pour cette intrusion, and I would consider it a privilege to know your name, Monsieur.”

“Oh, er, je suis le comte de Farndon, d’Angleterre. Et vous?” Renzi said hesitantly, realising he must already be known.

“I am Horace Francois Bastien Sebastiani de la Porta and I have the honour to be the ambassador of the French Empire to the Sublime Porte.” The reply came in exquisite tones. “And these my secretary Florimond de Fay la Tour Maubourg and my aide Louis Gustave le Doulcet, at your service, milord.”

Renzi bowed to each, confusion and embarrassment on his features as he let it be seen that, as an Englishman, he wondered what was to be expected of him on confronting an enemy of his king.

Sebastiani said smoothly, “Do you not think it iniquitous that we should feel boorish in the presence of another with whose country we have a difference? Are there so few civilised Europeans in Turkey that we must scorn each other’s company?”

“Quite so, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.”

“So you are a scholar, milord. Are you then known in learned circles, perhaps?”

This was the inquisition: if he showed himself as anything more than a bumbling amateur it was all over.

“My paper on ethnical responses to economic challenge was well received. Count Rumford himself sponsoring its presenting.” He smiled modestly. “Once even I was in your Institut, guest of the formidable Pierre Laplace.” That he was at the time in Paris spiriting away an American submarine inventor need not be mentioned.

“How singular. He is a friend of mine and now a count of the French Empire, regrettably taking against the English since tricked by an agent of sorts in Paris.”

Renzi gave an embarrassed smile. “There is no accounting for the wickedness of those who would promote war as a remedy for all ills.”

“Yes. Are you finding your visit to Turkey an enlightening experience? For myself the Orient is an eternally fascinating quarter of the world.”

“Why, to a certain degree. Although I have my personal suite, I find some of the practices to which I’m exposed disagreeable, and I’m dreading conditions to be found in Asia Minor. Not at all that to which I’m accustomed, you’ll understand.”

If that didn’t confirm him as a fop and aristocrat …

“I do so sympathise,” Sebastiani replied, with oily charm. “We must keep in touch, have dinner together perhaps. So, milord, a bientot!”

Two objectives met in as many days! The sultan knew of him, and now the French, he was sure, had him down as a harmless fool.

But he was a long way from what had to be achieved. Sebastiani was as cold and ruthless as he’d imagined, and if there was a breath of suspicion, the Frenchman would move promptly and efficiently.

Time was not on his side. He had to find a way to get to Selim. Speak to him, find honeyed words that could match those Sebastiani was pouring into his ears. His optimism receded at the near impossibility of getting access, let alone offering counterarguments-and at the same time preserving his character as a dabbling bookworm.

But he had not long to wait before Zorlu took him aside. “I congratulate you, Fahn’ton Pasha. You underestimate your powers, I believe. I have been approached by the palace on the matter of the sultan’s invitation for you to be his guest.”

“His guest!”

“It is not unprecedented for a foreigner to be so honoured, lord. For those who interest the sultan … and for those he would keep in a velvet cage.”

The game had changed: it was getting deeper, but was this his chance?

Their quarters were discreetly inside the walls within the first courtyard, set back from the path they had taken before. They were commodious, richly decorated with intricate blue and white tiling, marble columns and Arabic texts girdling every room. Gold-leafed filigree adorned arched passageways and the rooms were spread with fabulous carpets; it was as something from Sinbad and One Thousand and One Nights.

“Does it meet with your approval, Jago?” Renzi asked, trying not to be impressed.

“It will do, m’ lord,” the man answered stolidly, as he supervised the household transfer. It was diverting to see him handle the delicacies of delegating duties among the palace servants and his own staff. A young lad with some English was among those assigned from the palace, and harmony was preserved, Golding continuing as personal valet to his lordship and the cook, Henri, mollified with access to his own kitchen area.

There was adjacent accommodation for a dragoman. Renzi was hesitant to offer it again to Zorlu, but the man had already settled himself in before he could broach the subject.

It was now certain that in some way or another he would have the ear of the sultan. Whatever the occasion there would be a meeting. What would he say?

Myriad thoughts crowded in and he began sorting them into logical groupings. First there was-

“Pasha, I hesitate to interrupt your thinking but you should know you will be expected at a feast tonight. For the foreign envoys. It is the expected thing in an Ottoman court.”

“But I’m not an envoy, Zorlu.”

If he was being treated as such, it destroyed in one the trust his independence from state diplomacy brought.

“The feast is not at a high level, lord. To me it appears that Selim uses the occasion of entertaining the envoys as a convenient means to meet you more intimately. Whether from curiosity or … deeper reasons we cannot know.”

“The French will be there.”

“Not necessarily, lord. There are sixty-nine ambassadors now in Constantinople and the choice of invitations is his.”

“Then we must prepare. You will tell me how to behave, Zorlu Bey.”

Even though a lesser affair, the spectacle was grand. As the evening drew in, hundreds of courtiers, dignitaries and clerics, arrayed in sumptuous clothing, began lining the courtyard paths. By the gate the Janissaries formed up, the thunder of their giant drums and cymbals pierced with the sharp notes of reed instruments sounding barbaric and elemental.

In an anteroom the envoys met together. Exotically dressed notables from the inner Balkans mingled with those in Arabic headdress and central Asian gold-threaded tunics. It was Renzi, dressed as a European in silk stockings and breeches, who was the stranger in this part of the world.

He looked about for Sebastiani and the French but did not see them and conversed happily in broken Greek with a genial Turk from the Morea. Zorlu brought up an Egyptian Copt with a pressing desire to meet an Englishman, and Renzi smiled pleasantly in incomprehension at an earnest little man in a colourful waistcoat and swirling trousers.

But just what approach should he take with Selim? Through Zorlu, anything would be measured facts, opinions, not charged with mind-changing revelation of feelings or the subtlety of give and take.

Out of sight trumpets brayed insolently. There was a sudden hush: movement could be heard in the inner room, then several Janissaries in tall white hats appeared at the door and snapped orders.

Renzi went in with the others, and saw Sebastiani-close to Selim.

It was a disaster. He had been humiliated by the French, forced to answer the sultan’s potent questions with weak generalisations. It was unlikely he would be asked again-or even meet him on another occasion. In the game of manoeuvre and guile with which he had been entrusted by his country, he had failed dismally.

At any point, and without warning, it could all end with the French finally wooing the sultan into their camp and bringing Bonaparte’s plans to success.

Arriving back at his quarters in the darkest of moods, Renzi was quite taken aback by Jago’s polite announcement that the sultan’s gifts were ready for inspection.

They were princely. A kaftan, with richly embroidered patterning in yellow and red, threaded with gold. A stylish white turban, with delicate feathers spraying out from a single emerald. And a pair of spangled red velvet slippers with upturned tips.

A note was attached: Zorlu translated the elegant Persian flourishes as an invitation to spare himself the discomfort of European attire for the more sensible dress of the Turk.

Included, too, was a series of embossed volumes on the history of the Osmanli, the Ottoman house, by an Italian monk. As well, a learned treatise by a Turk on the felicities of Islam translated into unreadable hieratic Greek, and a slim volume, densely ornamented, that had Zorlu draw in his breath sharply.

“This is tesbib, lord,” he said reverently, stroking the little book. “It is Divan poetry, the highest and most ancient form in the land. Even the Seljuk Turks revered its beauty.”

Renzi scanned it quickly. It meant nothing, the Persian script lovingly scribed in flowing swirls and finials, yet it was certainly a thing of exquisite execution.

“What is it about?”

“Fahn’ton Pasha, it tells of the transcendent allure of nature as an expression of the ethereal.

“I will read you some.”

He did, and the sophisticated and ingenious conceits in the flowering of culture moved Renzi.

“Pray tell me, what do these gifts mean?”

“By this we can say that you are placed in a position of respect. A kaftan is usually awarded to viziers and courtiers deemed worthy of reward, but the books-I have not heard of foreigners being so favoured. It can only be he believes that, as a scholar, you will appreciate them.”

“Ah. Is it expected that I will return the princely favour with a gift of my own?”

“That is generally the case, lord.”

A diplomatic envoy would have taken precautions to bring suitable presents-he had nothing.

“If I have no gifts, would it be taken amiss?”

“Formally speaking, it would be seen as disdain, an affront, a rejection of friendliness, but as you are not an envoy, perhaps …”

Renzi racked his brain feverishly. But all he had was paltry indeed after this.

Something …

A little later he handed Zorlu a small packet, tied with a single ribbon. “See that this goes to the sultan with my sincere respects and so forth.”

It had been a sacrifice, but too much was at stake to consider personal feelings and it might even produce a result.

In the early-morning light Renzi struggled to wakefulness.

“M’ lord, do pardon the liberty.”

“Yes, Jago?”

“A summons, m’ lord. From the sultan himself-now.”

A peremptory demand for his presence at this hour? It could mean anything.

“No, not that, Golding. The Turkish costume, I think.”

It felt outlandish and theatrical when he drew it on but it was undeniably comfortable and easy on the body. Even the turban was little hindrance. Passing his totally blank-faced staff, he strode confidently outside, with an approving Zorlu, to the waiting Janissary guards.

But there seemed to be some difficulty. He waited patiently for Zorlu to deal with it.

“Lord, they have orders for your own self, no others. They will not let me go with you.”

There was no arguing with the captain of the guard and, not a little apprehensive, Renzi allowed himself to be escorted away.

They passed through the Gate of Salutation into the second courtyard, deserted so early in the morning, and continued towards the hallowed third courtyard and the sultan’s private spaces. Then through the Gate of Felicity with the Grand Throne Room ahead, specifically placed to hide all sight of what lay within.

Renzi was led along a marble walkway to an impressively colonnaded building, fronted by a grassy expanse with a fountain.

And there, waiting for him, was Sultan Selim. And he was quite alone.

The Janissaries retired.

Hesitantly, Renzi bowed politely in the Turkish way, hand on heart with an inclination of the head, and, at a loss at how he should continue, bade him good morning in English.

“Allah has presented us with a new day,” Selim said, in mellifluous French. “Is it not beautiful?”

In his hands he held the gift, Renzi’s own precious little book, its leather binding so frayed and dark.

“I confess to being consumed with curiosity at your favour, Fahn’ton Pasha. I’m accustomed to rich endowments, jewels, silks, marvels-but you have given me just this. I’m therefore persuaded it has a value far above its appearance and I beg you will tell me more of it.”

“Seigneur, this is my most beloved possession. It is the work of the English poet Wordsworth, and each night I seek solace in its beauty before I sleep. Sir, I could not think of anything more valuable to give in return to the one who presented me with the tesbib, which I will treasure for all my days.”

“You know what it contains?”

“Sire, from Zorlu Bey I have heard its first words in adoration of nature-and was so taken with its delicacy and charm that I was immediately put in mind of my Wordsworth.”

“Really? Then I desire you should read a piece to me.”

Renzi took the book and opened it as they started walking together.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Selim remained silent as he reflected on the words, then turned to face Renzi.

“You are a deeper soul than your manners suggest, Fahn’ton Pasha. You are a thinking man, which is rare in a world of doers, and I warm to you.”

“I’m touched, Seigneur.”

They passed the fountain, its tumbling water just beginning to glitter in the strengthening sun.

“You conceive that I, the sultan, am the possessor of all things, am omnipotent in my domains. Do you not?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile on his sensitive features.

“It is hard to think otherwise, sir-except that not all things in this world are for a mortal’s commanding.”

“Indeed. It is a paradox I have long contemplated-that I do indeed have all power concentrated in my hands. At a word I may have a man’s head struck from his shoulders and none may question why. Yet by that very act I unleash forces in a way perfectly unforeseeable before the event.

“When I must act on a larger stage, where the world is convulsed in tides of conflict and greed, exactly the same paradox applies.”

Renzi remained silent.

“Take my country. My rule is absolute: it cannot be put aside. Yet a wrong word from me can cast it into a tumult of rivalry and strife. For instance, it is apparent to me and, no doubt, to yourself, Fahn’ton Pasha, that unless my people modernise, advance in science and industry, we shall be left to moulder on the dung-heap of history.

“I have tried to introduce reforms. The Grand Mufti Haji Samatar approves without reservation. Mehmed Ataullah Efendi, leader of the Islamic Ulema, is strongly against. Each has his followers so if I support one it will be at the cost of the other’s enmity. Yet this is not the question-that must be not what satisfies them but what is the right and proper course for Ottoman Turkey. My heart says I must press for reform, but should it be at the cost of-of disorder in the realm?”

The unspoken conclusion could only be that indecision, doing nothing, was the same as denying reform. It was an impossible quandary and he felt for the man.

“Seigneur, why do you tell me this?” he said carefully.

“Why? You cannot guess? Let us then move to the largest stage of all-a world that is locked in war while Turkey sleeps, dreaming of the centuries. This war is like no other for it is one of world empires pitted one against another, and every part of the civilised globe is drawn into their struggle whether they wish it or no. The same dilemma arises: when nations demand it, which is the right side to take for my country?”

Renzi fought down excitement. It was everything he could have prayed for: the ear of the sultan alone and the very subject raised that he wanted. But he clamped an icy control on himself: any rash or unguarded comment could destroy his position.

“There are no English left in Constantinople,” Selim continued quietly. “All I have are the French, who tell me what they will. What of the other side?”

“Sir, I am but a subject of the Crown of England, not a diplomat, still less an accredited envoy. This is beyond my powers to tell.”

“That is well said, but you have confessed to the heart of the matter-you are English and may be relied on to offer to me an English view of how any matter might be perceived by your countrymen. And at your eminence I dare to say by your king and fellow nobles.”

“If I can be of service in this way to you, Seigneur, it would be my honour to provide it. Is there any question at hand that presses?”

“Since you ask it, Fahn’ton Pasha, my people are at this time in fear and trembling that the English are offended and that the great fleet of Nelson Bey will be sent against us to destroy Constantinople. Is it in your conceiving that the affront is of such a gravity that this will happen?”

Renzi inwardly exulted. It was almost too easy-but he steadied himself, slowing in his walk as if giving it grave thought.

It was ludicrous, of course, to think that the Admiralty would lift the blockade of Cadiz simply to send the warships to Constantinople to teach it a lesson for some trivial slight. But an Oriental people would not see things in the same way, their conception of honour and insult being at quite another remove.

How to put this across without offending Selim?

“Seigneur, while I am not privy to the affairs of state at a high level, as you’ll understand, it would seem to me that in Parliament it would be thought that the present troubles with France would make it inadvisable to send the fleet away. It is probable that they would frown on any slight but would let it pass and be forgotten in the press of concerns nearer home.”

“You would advise then, that this will not happen.”

“Sir, tell your people to sleep easier in their beds. Nelson’s fleet will not trouble them.”