Pasha

CHAPTER 12

RENZI DESCENDED SLOWLY FROM THE MINARET, stunned. He had vaguely recognised one or two of the British ships but their war flags were unmistakable. And there had been no doubt about their course-it was direct for Constantinople. But now they were sailing away, with not a single shot fired. What in the name of all the devils in hell were they about?

Even in the little passage heading back to his cell he could hear the shouts of jubilation, the crack and pop of muskets fired into the air, raucous drumming, full-throated yelling; he winced at the humiliation.

Mahmut closed the door quietly and left.

It was an unmitigated catastrophe. With the only effective card the British had, played so disastrously, Renzi’s situation was now impossible. Before, he had had the ear of the sultan. Now …

He lay on the low bed, moodily staring up. The French had won by default and were now in a position to complete their grand project.

It was over.

With all options closed, there was nothing for it but to return to London and admit failure on his first mission.

At least he’d be quit of this place of menace and ignominy.

The evening gloom closed in with no lessening of the racket outside and time passed drearily.

A rattling at the door disturbed his melancholy. But it was only Mahmut, bringing leftovers from some celebration feast.

Renzi picked at it: lamb yahni and pomegranate sherbet. He knew he wouldn’t be allowed to depart without getting leave from Selim who, significantly, had not visited to discuss these final developments. Unease pricked him. On one hand he stood to be quietly forgotten as an embarrassment, to be done away with at a convenient time; on the other, if the French got to hear of him, it would be in Selim’s interest to hand him over to General Sebastiani.

The next day the sultan appeared in the afternoon without warning.

“Seigneur, how kind in you.” Renzi bowed.

Selim wore a magnificent turquoise and crimson gown with a large turban and pearls, clearly just returned from some grand occasion. Renzi, in his clothes of some days, and unshaven, tried to keep a lordly countenance.

“Fahn’ton Pasha, I’ve come to release you from this unfitting confinement.”

“Liberty is most precious to the human soul when it is absent, Sire.”

“Ah, perhaps not liberty.”

Renzi felt a stab of alarm. “I had hoped to-”

“It would be foolish for an Englishman to venture abroad at this time. I have thus arranged accommodation for you at a remove from this, but perhaps not to your accustomed degree of comfort. However, you will be safe there.”

“Thank you, Sire. It would be of some gratification to me to know what has transpired since I … was brought here. I have had no news.”

“Certainly. Things are much clearer to me now.” He gave a tight smile. “Even you can see that the British are powerless, for this is a contest on land, not on the sea where they are at their strongest. Our own borders are far from the sea, to the very Danube, and there the Russians are intriguing in the hope of expanding their empire at our cost. What we need are strong friends who can help us stand against them-armies, not navies.”

“And you believe the French will offer you this?”

“They have already done so, and I’m minded to accept.”

“Their price a formal alliance.”

Selim looked at him thoughtfully. “You are astute, indeed, for a simple scholar, Fahn’ton Pasha.”

“Seigneur, I thank you for the compliment, but confess to you that it is only what is readily to be observed in any country that falls under the sway of Napoleon Bonaparte. First the sweet words, then the formalities, and after, domination at the highest levels, which leaves the nation subservient to the wishes of the French. Finally there is placed on the throne yet another of Bonaparte’s family. Shall I rehearse to you the countries of Europe that have been served so? It is-”

“Thank you, no,” the sultan said sharply. “Recollect to whom you are speaking, sir!”

“My humble apologies, Your Majesty,” Renzi said, with a deep bow. “It is only my regard for your person and the dignity of the great Ottoman Empire that obliges me to speak in such manner.”

Selim’s expression did not change, but he went on quietly, “Nevertheless, I shall give your words careful thought before the alliance is signed, for it would grieve me deeply to make an enemy of your people, as no doubt I shall be required to do.”

Renzi knew that feeling against the English was running high: was Selim just exercising a degree of discretion in not revealing one in protection within the Topkapi Palace? There could be more sinister motives: the retaining of a high-value hostage for the inevitable confrontation with Britain, when their treaty was abrogated and interests aligned with the French.

Mahmut came for him after dark to take him to his new quarters.

The location was brilliantly conceived. He would be concealed in plain view-and in perfect safety.

In the second courtyard was the tallest structure in the palace. The Adalet Kulesi, the Tower of Justice, symbolised the eternal vigilance of the sultan against oppression. His people from far and near could look upon it and be reassured.

There were three storeys, and Renzi’s was to be the uppermost, the bare floor area cunningly set out with silk tents in imitation of a pasha’s field camp.

He was greeted in the middle storey by his wide-eyed staff and Zorlu, to one side.

“You have been here long?”

“Not so long, m’ lord,” Jago replied imperturbably. “As we was taken up when you went to … to where you went. Been here since, m’ lord.”

It would have been good to know they were secure while he had been distracted in his cell.

Zorlu listened intently to his experiences. “I rather fear your anxieties are not misplaced, my lord. The sooner we are gone …”

Renzi saw that the tower had some useful features. It was for the sole use of the sultan and therefore entrance was only from the harem. At the top there was a grilled observation port for Selim’s viewing pleasure and in its lower part the “Golden Window,” a means of secretly listening to the deliberations of the grand vizier’s Divan, the Imperial Council, which was adjacent.

There was a sense of order and normality; Jago had not been flustered at being spirited away into these singular surroundings, and the basics of a household were in place.

“A bath, and then a shave,” he decided.

“Certainly, m’ lord.”

Ablutions completed, and wearing a fresh-smelling kaftan, Renzi explored their little world. The viewing port on his floor allowed a fine sight of the Gate of Felicity and the area in front of the Imperial Council Hall, as well as providing a lookout over the whole city.

The mechanics of supporting the little group were simple. At set times Jago, with his Turkish interpreter, would meet one of the eunuchs at the ground floor and their needs would be explained. These, with meals and fresh water, would appear and be carried up by Golding and the others and routine would be observed.

The Lord Farndon would not want for comforts, it seemed.

That night Renzi lay in an opulent fur-spread bed in his “tent” and tried to make sense of events.

The French were about to become effective rulers. Did he not then have a duty to remain and see what happened? Yet there was little point if he could not report and he had no way to communicate with the outside world.

His central mission was to bring about the ejection of the French from their position of influence. Nothing else mattered.

He forced his mind to an icy calm.

The key to it all was Selim. Only he had the authority to bring it about. But he had chosen to go with the French. They offered the only security against the Russians and English, had armies in the Balkans that could be called upon, and since the Nile, Bonaparte had gone out of his way to woo him, above all with military advisers who had done much to reform the Turkish Army.

The French were identified now with national security and the new world order. The sultan would be a fool to turn his back on them.

Renzi’s thoughts darkened as he considered every alternative, irrespective of honour or morality. It chilled him for he found his logic hardening into a conclusion that was as inexorable as it was cold-blooded.

If Selim was leading Turkey into this alliance, he had to be stopped, removed from the equation.

A Russian invasion would do it, but there was little chance of that in the near future. The alternative was appalling to contemplate. Assassination. Presumably by himself.

There was excellent opportunity, for they always met alone and he was trusted above most. It wouldn’t be difficult.

Renzi’s very being was revolted at the treachery but his merciless logic asked if he had a more effective answer.

He didn’t. The consequences he must put aside: it would probably end with his unpleasant demise-better he took a pistol to himself first.

An image of Cecilia thrust itself unbearably into his mind. All he had to do was to wait it out and he would eventually be back in her arms in the opulence of Eskdale Hall and …

He crushed the thought and focused on the present. How much did he believe in his mission? An assassination would achieve its object-there would be no alliance, no road to India and empire for Bonaparte. Almost certainly an immeasurable adversity to his country would have been forestalled and it was in his power to do it.

It was not too late-for if he drew back, didn’t go through with it, no one would ever know.

But he would have to live with the failure for the rest of his life.

At some time in the early hours another possibility emerged. A slender, much less certain alternative, but it would mean Selim need not die.

He had heard the sultan himself admit he had adversaries among those who opposed reform. Was there any chance of an uprising? A revolution of sorts that would strip Selim of his powers, go against his friends the French?

He had no idea, and in any case, the thought of his playing a part in something like that was laughable.

Or was it?

A tiny shoot of a stratagem sprang into existence. Yes, it might be possible.

He knew nothing of the factions that seethed in the Ottoman capital-but Zorlu did.

This was now at a different plane of danger entirely. If any suspected what he was plotting it would be a cruel and barbarous death in prospect. He would be putting his life and cause into the hands of one man.

Zorlu had professed a love of England, but it was not his native land. Would he give his support to a rising against his sovereign lord, Sultan Selim? Quite apart from the personal danger, would he see the cause as more important than the inevitable anarchy and bloodshed? It was asking a lot of the man, and if Renzi had misjudged him it would be all over for himself.

Yet if he didn’t attempt to win over Zorlu, he must fall back on the first sanction.

In the morning came news. The Russians, barred from the Dardanelles, had hit on an ingenious solution. They in turn were blockading the same strait to Turkish shipping, cutting off Constantinople from the outer world and its trade, at a stroke touching the lives of every inhabitant in the land.

As it began to bite, there would be unrest and ugly scenes: the scenario any zealous anarchist could wish for. Renzi had to make his move soon.

“Zorlu. A word, if I may?”

He started by sorrowing for the destiny of Turkey at the hands of France, the inevitable taking over of every position of power: if Bonaparte were to retain his longed-for route to glory, he would not leave anything to chance in this priceless strategic asset. The fate of the people, their traditions, their freedom.

Carefully he brought the subject around to Selim, a sultan who had probably made the wrong decision and very shortly would go ahead with it-if he was not stopped.

Zorlu listened without comment.

Renzi then went on innocently to enquire if there was any likelihood that he would be overthrown by a faction, say, one opposed to reform.

“Lord, let me tell you something of the situation, remembering that false-hearted viziers never show their true fidelity until circumstances dictate.”

“I understand, Zorlu. Please go on.”

“On the one hand we have those who crave reform and entry to the modern world, and are Sultan Selim’s most ardent followers. Chief of these, you may say, is the grand vizier, Ibrahim Hilmi Pasha, and the grand mufti, Haji Samatar, is loud in his support. There are others, but these two are the ones he may count upon.

“In those against his reforms we may especially note the Janissaries, who have ancient privileges and much power, but they are held in check by the rising new army trained by the French, the Nizam-i Cedid, which has modern weapons and discipline and is hated by them.”

“So there’s no central figure who might be considered a focus for the discontented?”

“Lord, that is difficult to say. No man dare tell the world he stands against the sultan, but I have heard the leader of the Ulema, Mehmed Ataullah, utter words unbecoming.”

“The Ulema?”

“The highest body of Muslim legal scholars, making him a powerful man.”

“So no one of stature in the Army, say?”

“There are many, but none openly declared to be in opposition. A personage of note, however, and a sly, treacherous fox, is the deputy grand vizier, one Kose Musa, who I’m certain harbours secret desires of his own.”

“Then, as far as you know, there are none actively plotting against Sultan Selim?”

“They dare not move while the forces are balanced so.”

“Is there not a crown prince of sorts they may push forward to replace Selim?”

“If you mean Prince Mustafa, although he stands to inherit the Osman Sultanate, they will have a weak enough reed to rest their hopes on-he has since birth been reared and confined within the harem, dissipating his life in pleasures of the flesh. It is said he has never once set foot outside the palace.”

Zorlu looked at Renzi intently, his eyes troubled. “Fahn’ton Pasha, why are you asking me these things?”

“Zorlu, please bear with me. I have one final question: in your opinion, if the disaffected saw a chance to rise up by reason of a favourable external circumstance, would they at all?”

“I will tell you directly. There is much hatred of the sultan’s reforms and the situation is volatile. But it will never happen while the grand vizier reigns and the Nizam-i Cedid remains loyal, as it most assuredly will.”

Renzi had his answer. There would be no revolt. That left only one course and he must do it. He knew of no other who would.

It had to be the knife. His heart cringed at the vision of his assassin’s blade ending the existence of one who had befriended and trusted him, but there was no other way. Possibly, if it happened at night in his third-floor apartment, he could open the grilled window wide and thrust the body through. Later it would be found at the base of the tower.

He was checked in his thoughts. Where was the morality, the pity in him? How could he contemplate cold-blooded murder so dispassionately?

It was his logic. The merciless outworking of that part of him that had always kept him aloof from the world and its perplexities.

Securing a knife was no problem. He extravagantly admired a curved, ornamented dagger worn by one of the eunuchs and offered to buy it as a souvenir to take back to England. A working weapon for those entrusted with guarding the harem, its exotically fashioned hilt was in complete contrast to the lightly blued wicked blade.

He concealed it behind a tent’s draperies and prepared himself. There was no knowing when Selim would appear so he put it about that he valued his privacy and wished to be left alone.

The blockade was taking its toll and there were noisy disturbances out on the streets. Renzi gave a half-smile-it was turning into a naval war after all. The French had been wrong about that but could do nothing to counter it and therefore Selim had much to concern himself with.

When his supper was brought, he heard word had come from Roumelia, at the Wallachia border along the Danube. The Russians were massing. Orders were given, and the grand vizier left with his best troops to confront them.

The decision was also made that the Russian blockade had to be broken. The Turkish Navy was concentrated together in a battle squadron and sailed to meet the Russians.

This was now a different matter. The Navy was obligated to Selim for his reforms, which had brought it into the modern world, and fiercely loyal-but now the entire fleet was sailing south and was out of reach.

With the grand vizier leaving for Roumelia, Selim had few supporters. However, he still had the loyalty of the Nizam-i Cedid, which safely outnumbered even the Janissaries and all of the others in Constantinople.

But they were quartered in Levend Chiftlik, across the water, in recognition of their controversial presence.

The duplicitous deputy grand vizier, Musa, had assumed plenary powers and was now Selim’s prime minister, with the leader of the Ulema, Ataullah, as his right-hand man.

Was it time to consider his other course? Renzi could see there would be no better moment to make his move to spark a revolt.

But if he went this way and Zorlu or others turned on him, the other plan would be made impossible and Selim would go on to make the fatal alliance.

One way was certain; this other had the potential to fail.

He wrestled with the elements and decided it would not be the assassin’s knife.

Fighting down the protests from his logical self that he was shying away from the act, he weighed his chances.

Zorlu was the only one who could put him into contact with the players. If he backed him, with his spark of a scheme, there was a chance he could pull off his revolt and Selim’s life would not be forfeit.

But if Zorlu turned against him, Renzi would be forced to use his knife on him then and there to preserve the first sanction.

In the deathly quiet of the deserted floor, draped all about with Oriental silks and tassels, Renzi set out his plan to Zorlu, who listened politely, his features drawn.

Then he spoke slowly, bleakly. “Lord-I understand more than you can know. It must be done. What should I do?”

Relief flooded Renzi.

It was quickly followed by warmth towards one who was wrestling his demons without complaint and who was about to be placed in deadly danger as he approached the most powerful men in the caliphate with a plot against the sultan.

“Our object is to place so much pressure on Selim that he dare not go ahead with the alliance. The haters of reform are our target but they will not move until they feel secure. I have a plan that meets this but requires I speak to them directly. Can you … ?”

This was a turning point: once they went ahead the future was unknown.

Not only was Zorlu in mortal peril but by giving up the secret of their existence in the tower, Renzi, Jago and all of the others would be at their mercy.

“Fahn’ton Pasha, it is done.”

“When?”

“This very night. It has caused great interest among Selim’s opponents and they desire you should lay your plans before them at the earliest possible time.”

Renzi’s heart skipped a beat. There was no stopping the juggernaut now.

“Zorlu Bey, I can’t tell you how much I admire your courage and fidelity. I’ve a notion you risked much?”

He gave a tiny smile. “Lord, if only to reveal to you whom we march with, my fate, if it’s deemed we’re charlatans, is to be sewn into a sack with a dozen rats and dropped into the Bosporus.”

“I see.”

“For you, Lord, your head will decorate the Yedikule for a period not less than thirty days and nights.”

“Then we had better be sure of our little intrigue. What do you think of this?”

It was carefully arranged. There would be no face-to-face meeting. Instead they would make use of the sultan’s Golden Window. The conspirators would meet as they were entitled to in the Imperial Council Hall. Renzi would be on the other side and speak through the grille, Zorlu translating.

It did not escape Renzi that, while the Divan could claim complete innocence on their side, his actions were those of a spy. All it needed was for a eunuch to enter from the harem and it would be the end for him.

The grille was high, but a peculiar-shaped piece of furniture stood opposite that was clearly used as the sultan’s clandestine surveillance platform. Fortunately it could take the two of them so Renzi and Zorlu gingerly climbed up.

Renzi peered in: the Imperial Council Hall was lit by a central lamp and beautifully figured in gold and blue, a crimson velvet bench against the walls.

But there was no sign of life.

“Do I address anyone within?” he asked. Zorlu relayed his question.

Instantly there was a hard, guttural response from close to the grille, out of their range of vision.

“There will be no discussion of names,” Zorlu said neutrally.

Muttering, then a sharp question:

“The essence of your offer, and quickly.”

“Tell them … tell them this.”

He was an English scholar, treasuring the old ways and valuing those traditions handed down from the past, polished by the ages. Here in Constantinople, where he’d come to discover relics of history, he had been dismayed to find Sultan Selim so quick to bring in modern, foreign fashions to displace the old and wished to assist those who cherished their past.

It brought another curt growl.

“The offer?”

Putting as much feeling into it as he could, Renzi went on to make plain his sympathy for those wishing to stand up for their traditions but understandably reluctant for fear that Selim would quickly call in his French friends and their overwhelming armies from Dalmatia.

The answering grunt was tinged with impatience. Then came a curt demand for the name of the English scholar they were addressing.

Fahn’ton Pasha was a noble lord of England, a peer of the realm and of the court of the legendary King of England; his name and word were respected throughout the kingdom. He was offering that should there be a rising, he alone could guarantee that there would be no interference from the French.

There was a disbelieving snort.

How?

Well, the armies were in Dalmatia. Normally troops were moved quickly by sea transports and would be on the scene in a day or two. If, however, he saw a revolt begin, he would send an urgent message to Nelson’s admiral of the Adriatic Sea, under his name as a close friend of the King, ordering him to intercept the transports and stop them. The admiral would not dare refuse.

To reach here, the French would be forced to march overland, weeks must pass, and by that time it would all be over. There would be no interference from the French.

This brought on much excited muttering but it was answered by savage snarls and then the harsh voice demanded something.

“How can we trust you will send this message? This may well be an evil trick to get those opposed to Selim to reveal themselves.”

Renzi was ready for that and played his trump card.

“The righteous, standing for their freedoms, will need a figure to represent them against the repressive rule of Sultan Selim. Who better than Prince Mustafa? In his innocence he will need guidance, which can safely be left in your hands.”

An immediate response showed he had hit the mark.

“The prince is in the harem, under the direct eye of the sultan, who knows too well he can be the centre of a rebellion. While he’s there, confined, we cannot move.”

“There is a way,” Renzi said. “Should he be told privily that an Englishman will hide him and he obeys, to Selim it will appear he has escaped. I am held in the tower as his pawn but he has no reason to distrust me.

“Gentlemen, your signal to rouse the people will be the disappearing of Prince Mustafa.”

It was bold to the point of madness but it was cunningly balanced. They must show their hand first but in turn he was required to act openly.

Whispering went on interminably.

Standing in the gloom on the carved furniture, Renzi knew he was very vulnerable-at any moment the little harem gate could be flung wide and they would be discovered. Yet he felt a giddy elation: this might succeed.

The murmuring suddenly stopped and the voice hissed something.

“We agree. A good plan. You will recognise the hand of justice begin its work. Then you will send your message to your great admiral pasha.”

Still trembling with reaction, Renzi lay on his bed in the shadows of night and reflected on what he’d done.

He brutally crushed any shame at the betrayal. There was no room for high morality, not with the lives at stake of the thousands who would face Bonaparte in his breakout to India. But was this a despicable justification for a tawdry attempt to seize success for his mission-or was he being swept along before forces he could no longer control?

Only one thing was morally certain in all this. He had been right to refuse Cecilia’s begging to accompany him.

Dear, sweet, darling Cecilia.

His eyes pricked and a wave of helpless emotion engulfed him. But in the darkness there was no one to see the tears.

The officer stalked into the barracks in Rumeli Kavak. He was a proud, trained captain in the Nizam-i Cedid and despised these yamaks, low-grade Circassian and Albanian auxiliaries, but he had his orders. Unwise ones, in his opinion, but from the very highest level, requiring his command to show their loyalty to the sultan by throwing aside their colourful traditional garb and putting on the new order uniforms of the reformed army.

They wouldn’t like it, but he was making sure of it by refusing to hand over their quarterly pay to any not in the new uniform.

Loudly he told them, not bothering to hide his contempt.

There was murmuring, which turned to shouts.

“Astsubay,” he roared at his sergeant. “Show these dogs!”

But the sergeant with the uniforms held back at the ugly press of men now bunching truculently in front of him.

“Go on! Don’t be afraid of such as these. They’re vermin and must obey orders!”

A dangerous edge lay on the shouts now and a burly yamak pushed himself to the front and folded his arms defiantly. “We don’t wear those accursed infidel goat-skins!” he snarled. “As Allah is my witness.”

The officer swaggered forward. “You’re an impudent fool. You’ll take my orders or suffer.”

The big yamak held his eyes with a sneer. Annoyed, the officer swept back his horse crop and made to slash the man across the face, but a beefy arm seized it. Astonished, the officer tried to free it but in one movement he was yanked forward off balance and a fist took him full in the face.

He cried out in outrage and crumpled to his knees. With a savage growl the yamak brought his linked fists down on the officer’s neck and he slumped to the ground.

“Damn him and his kind to hell!”

It released a fury and the officer disappeared under a hail of fists and clubs. The sergeant looked on in horror and turned to flee but was tripped and fell under an onslaught of murderous battering.

“We’ve nothing to lose but our yokes!” the man roared. “Let’s put an end here and now to this new order blasphemy. Follow me, those who have the heart and stomach to stop the desecration of our sacred fathers’ memory!”

There was a swelling uproar and yamaks spilled out into the night, whooping and yelling. It brought others, and the fever spread. Officers panicked and tried to flee but the soldiers knew they were untouchable, and years of degradation at the hands of the arrogant Nizam-i Cedid drove them on into open revolt.

The deputy grand vizier laid down the scribbled message with a smile. “There. It sufficed. We have our rising.”

“As Allah allows, Kose Musa,” chided Mehmed Ataullah, leader of the Ulema, but there was an air of triumph about him. “Now you must face Selim, of course.”

“Not yet,” Musa said smoothly. “Let matters take their course, mature a little.”

The sultan’s urgent summons came later, but he was ready.

“Great Khan, this is terrible news.”

“It is, Vizier. It has to be stopped before it spreads.” The sultan was pale and agitated.

“Yes, Sire. I’ve sent agents out to determine the ringleaders and await their return, but whatever else, we must not be seen to give it too much attention or we’ll be thought to fear the wretches.”

“We can stop it-call out the Nizam-i Cedid.”

“I cannot approve of that, Ghazi Sultan. Craving your forgiveness, it has to be said they are not admired absolutely and their appearance may well bring on the very situation we fear. It is a delicate situation and only level-headed leadership will answer.”

“So?”

“To prevent a conflagration, the Nizam-i Cedid should receive orders to remain in their barracks in Levend Chiftlik until the rising is put down. The Janissaries here-of long and ancient loyalties-will be sufficient to safeguard the palace, Supreme Lord.”

“Are you sure that … ?”

“It will be sufficient, Sire.”

Jago appeared before Renzi. “A Turk o’ sorts presents you with this ’un. Didn’t stay, m’ lord.”

It was the polite gift of a piece of gold cloth embroidered with an elaborate calligraphic device. There was no mistaking its significance.

“Thank you, Jago. We will have a guest. Do make up a tent or such next to mine, will you?”

“Yes, m’ lord.” Would nothing shake his impassive air?

Prince Mustafa was a deathly pale, willowy young man, with eyes like a frightened dove’s.

“I greet Your Highness and fear my hospitality is not that to which you are accustomed.”

It seemed it would be adequate in the circumstances.

“Here is Master Jago. He is to attend to your every want, in so far as we can oblige.”

Jago’s real instructions were never to leave his side and, above all, to make certain that he never showed himself.

The clock was ticking.

Musa worked energetically. To succeed, the rising must look spontaneous and widespread.

To this end he first penned, in his elegant Persian script, a firman from Sultan Selim himself requiring his Nizam-i Cedid to remain in their barracks and not to move out without explicit orders from himself. This was sent with all dispatch.

Next he called about him his trusted lieutenants. “Go to the Janissaries. Tell them that at last the time has come to seize back the honour that is rightfully theirs-they have been presented by Heaven with a once only opportunity to rid their world of these ungodly reforms and so forth. Get them to join with the yamaks to make certain the cause is triumphant, for the Nizam-i Cedid cannot interfere.

“Tell them also that they have a champion, one to stand for them against Selim’s misguided reforms. Prince Mustafa is free and in hiding now but will reveal himself when the time is right.”

That night every corner of Constantinople was alive with excitement and disquiet, rumours of Janissaries rising up, bands of yamaks inviting the common people under their banner-and then it began.

Musa knew it would: now with a cause, a leading figure and the hated Nizam-i Cedid on a leash there was everything to win. The people were on the march-for Constantinople and the palace of the sultan.

He sighed with satisfaction. It was proceeding far better than he had anticipated. The Army over at Levend Chiftlik had no inkling of what was going on for he had blocked access and they remained there, waiting for word from their sultan.

With the masses surging towards Constantinople there would now be an irresistible pressure on Selim to abandon his plans to join with the French and the comfortable old ways would return, but with quite a different power-sharing at the highest.

Renzi stood with Zorlu at the viewing port, looking out over the city. In place of the quiet of the night there were now lights twinkling everywhere, noise eddying up from the streets, faint shouts, and an electric atmosphere that was heavy with pent-up menace.

They didn’t speak-Renzi couldn’t bring himself to make conversation in the face of what was happening before his eyes.

Earlier he had watched from this lookout as search-parties of eunuchs and Janissaries hurriedly fanned out over the palace looking for the crown prince. It must have been a shock to Selim: that he held the only credible figure on whom unrest might centre was his guarantee of personal security. Now with the prince missing it was an ominous signal that something was in the wind.

There was a sudden hammering at the door below. Renzi motioned frantically to Mustafa, who disappeared into one of the tents. Then he flew down the stairs, followed by Zorlu.

If this was a search, without doubt none of them would ever see another dawn.

Heart pounding, Renzi opened the door. It was a Janissary officer, behind him others. He barked a series of commands. Then, astonishingly, he turned and left with his men.

Zorlu wiped his brow. “We’re to shut and lock our doors from now on. No one to go in or out. With Prince Mustafa unaccounted for, it’s not safe to be out.”

Renzi let out a shuddering sigh. They were trusted; there would be no searches.

Then he checked himself. How did the Janissaries know there was an Englishman in the tower?

The answer came swiftly: they must be the conspirators’ men, ensuring that Mustafa would not be found.

Early in the morning Renzi was woken by the sound of a crowd. It was coming from the direction of the vast open space of the Meydani beyond, once the hippodrome of the Byzantines. Somewhere there a restless multitude was gathering in the early-morning light.

They had to have come with some purpose: the Janissaries in firm control of the Topkapi Palace, they had no hope of storming it. Were they hoping to gain concessions from the sultan to tone down his reforms?

While Renzi watched from above, a delegation was allowed into the courtyard, closely escorted. They advanced to the area in front of the Imperial Council Hall-perfectly placed directly beneath his gaze.

Vizier Musa emerged from the Divan and met them, accepting a scroll. They were then escorted away.

A little later there was a flurry of activity at the Gate of Felicity, leading from the sultan’s courtyard. It was Selim-in gorgeous raiment that shimmered as he processed, moving directly into the Imperial Council Hall to meet his Divan.

Inside the splendid room the mood was tense and fractious.

“Sire, this petition is outrageous. It demands you disband the Nizam-i Cedid!”

“Vizier Mehmet, your views are well known,” Selim said uncomfortably, his face troubled. “What I need to decide at this moment is how to proceed without antagonising them further.”

Musa kept mute, watching each of the ministers reveal themselves. Already some were temporising, unwilling to be seen on the wrong side if things went against the sultan. For once time was in his favour-the longer Selim dithered, the uglier the crowd would get.

“Then, Great One, command the Nizam-i Cedid to come here. They’ll make short work of the rabble and restore your authority to its full respect without delay.”

Selim hesitated. “It does seem the time to make a firm gesture, I’ll admit. Perhaps I will send them orders.”

“Sire, that would, surely, be to your eternal regret,” Ataullah Efendi snapped immediately. As the highest legal scholar of Islam in the land, he had to be heard.

“Oh?”

“This I declare unto you. There will be a bloodbath-the soldiery will be resisted and the population will turn on them. You will be known for ever more as the Ottoman sultan who took a sword to his own people.”

Tight-faced, Shakir Efendi grated, “He needs to make a move of firmness and strength before it gets out of hand-then you’ll see a bloodbath, take my word on it.”

Musa let them take their positions, allowing the venomous debate to ebb and flow without conclusion, then he spoke. “Excellency, there is another solution.”

It brought quiet and a wary attention.

“Grand Vizier, I’d be gratified to hear it.”

“It is insupportable that a barbarous crowd issues demands to their sultan. Yet you are at the moment in a position of weakness and this is an act of extortion. Lie to them that you will disband the foreign-trained army-having got what they want they will disperse without harm to anyone. Afterwards, in your own time, you may reverse the decree.”

“Ah! It is offensive to our morals to break our word but it does have the merit of immediate effect.”

“Sire!” exploded Shakir. “That robs you of your last defences-don’t listen! You’ll have none to stand at your side against-”

“Shakir Efendi, this is only a temporary shift. When things are calmer I will rescind my words.”

“The crowd is swelling. The common people are joined by traitorous Janissaries. This is madness, Sire! We should-”

“Shakir,” Musa said slyly, “are you questioning your sultan?”

There could be no reply.

It was done.

Musa lifted his eyes to Heaven and murmured a prayer, then serenely addressed Sultan Selim: “Sire, I go now to try to speak to the crowd, tell them of your magnanimous decision. In peril of my life, I do so in the knowledge that it is my sacred duty to my liege khan.”

“Your courage and loyalty are a lesson to us all, Kose Musa. Go with the blessings of Allah.”

“I, the leader of the Ulema, will not stand by in the hour of the caliphate’s need,” intoned Ataullah. “Come, Vizier Musa, let us face what test Allah is bringing us and speak to the congregation together.”

They left in great dignity.

Afterwards the sultan was besieged by frightened ministers who had spoken out for him. “Sire, we’re in great peril-the masses may not disband. I beg you, send for the-”

“We are in the hands of Allah the Merciful,” Selim said weakly. “I go now to my harem.”

“Sire-Sire! We, your faithful servants-do not leave us alone with our enemies!”

The sultan stopped, troubled. “Very well. Shakir, Mehmet-you others. You may accompany me into sanctuary.”

“They’re going to speak to the crowd,” Zorlu murmured to Renzi, watching the two turbaned heads sweep off towards the outer gates. “That’s Kose Musa and with him Ataullah Efendi. It’s plain to me what they’ll do now.”

“Stir the people up, not pacify them.”

“Just so, my lord.”

Their attention was distracted: all over the palace, ornamental gates that had not moved for centuries ground shut and detachments of Janissaries took up lines in the first courtyard, their scimitars glittering in the morning sunlight.

“Will it be effective, do you think?”

“I do not know what was decided below us, but the plotters need to bring as much pressure on the sultan as they can muster to overcome his supreme will in the matter of reforms. We shall see.”

After an hour, a dangerous roar rose up.

The two returned later, and quickly disappeared into the Imperial Council Hall.

“There’s something afoot,” Renzi murmured.

The uproar and clamour increased, a horde now at the gates of the Topkapi Palace itself, spreading as it grew. From their midst burst a horseman with a huge red triangular banner. He made for the Imperial Gate, which seemed to open of its own accord, raced through and into the courtyard.

“To ride in a palace courtyard is forbidden to all but the sultan himself,” Zorlu murmured.

The Janissaries held their ground and the horse came to a stop, gyrating nervously while the rider argued with an officer.

“Lord, I do believe this is a species of demand on the sultan. I beg we may go to a lower floor that I might listen.”

They ran down the stone stairs to Jago’s realm. The staff were sitting despondently, knowing not a thing of what was going on, for the only window was out of reach high on the wall.

“We need to hear what’s going on, Jago,” Renzi puffed. “Do drag up some of this furniture to make a lookout through the window.”

“Very good, m’ lord.”

Upended beds, dressers, tables, were all brought to bear.

Renzi climbed up and peered out cautiously. Their viewpoint was well placed, overlooking the space of ground between the Imperial Council Hall and the Gate of Felicity and within earshot. Zorlu took position next to him.

The horseman had been let through the Janissary lines and now galloped recklessly up to the Imperial Council Hall. Reining in, he shouted-hectoring, demanding.

“He says he comes from the people, who have lost patience with the godless foreign deviations from the true faith, who see Sultan Selim led astray by false advisers, and demand that these be handed over to them for justice.”

Zorlu turned to Renzi, disturbed. “Lord, it seems the crowd feels its power. The French are finished now, you may be certain, but they want more-to seek revenge on those who supported Selim’s reforms. The sultan would be very unwise to agree to this.”

With a defiant gesture, the horseman bellowed a final threat and, wheeling about, raced back to the outer gate.

“And by this he is given an hour only to deliver up the men who took sanctuary. A most terrible decision for him.”

Musa stood respectfully to hear Selim speak.

It mattered little what he said: the reforms were finished, the Nizam-i Cedid disbanded, and the sultan was defenceless against the horde. A pity they were overstepping it, but it handily removed any rivals in the restored Divan.

He looked pityingly at the terrified sultan. This was now the end-game for Selim.

“There is … no alternative, is there?”

“None, Sire.”

“To deliver them up for-for justice.”

“You must.”

“Then leave me for a space, Vizier Musa. I will call on you when I’m ready.”

Selim walked back slowly into the interior of his palace, magnificently decorated in gold and blue tiles, hanging tassels and exquisitely wrought calligraphy picked out in ebony on emerald green. These had been added to down the centuries from the first sultan, Ahmet the Conqueror, bequeathed to each sultan in turn until today they were his.

He stopped in the tulip garden of the fourth courtyard, with its tiered fountains and sublime tranquillity.

The eunuch Nezir Aga came out and bowed.

“Summon our guests.”

One by one they came to the garden, some fearful, others trusting but apprehensive.

Selim returned their obeisance with dignity and the utmost respect. Here were men who had supported him and his efforts to reform, who had stood loyally between him and the forces of reaction and hatred and now looked to him for succour.

“Memish Efendi, Shakir, Safi, my good and loyal servants,” he said, in a low voice. “Allah has decreed that our cause is not yet. Worse, the forces of evil and discontent are in the ascendant.”

In poignant tones he told them what had happened.

“I’m grieved to tell you that your sultan is no longer in control of his fate.”

Their shocked faces looked back at him. If the sultan was not secure in his own harem, their world was turned upside down.

“They demand that you be handed over to them. This I cannot prevent.”

His words brought gasps of disbelief.

“I can, however, render it impossible for them to torment you further.

“Dear friends, I do offer you a clean and quick exit from this sorry world, an end to your terror and striving. Rather than being torn to pieces by the rabble you may meet a swift dispatch by my blade.”

He left them, walking slowly up the garden to the fountain as they fell prostrate to their prayers.

After a decent interval he signalled to Nezir.

“Are you prepared?”

In a line, one by one, they knelt in the beautiful garden.

The eunuch lifted his gleaming scimitar.

Anxious not to leave Prince Mustafa alone for too long, Renzi returned to the eerie quiet of their tent village. He motioned to the observation port. “Keep a watch, Zorlu. Tell me if-”

Then he went over to Prince Mustafa, who was agitated and needed calming.

“Fahn’ton Pasha. I think you must come.”

Zorlu’s voice was unsteady and Renzi hurried to see. A man he recognised as Ahmed, the secretary to Selim, was emerging from the Gate of Felicity. He walked in front of a small cart. Along the sides of it were pikes. On each was impaled a head.

“Good God!” Renzi whispered. “What does this mean?”

“He placates the crowd with the heads of those they seek.”

The lonely figure of Ahmed stepped out, heading for the gate and the baying crowd.

“There goes as brave a fellow as any I’ve seen,” Renzi said quietly.

Zorlu snorted. “It should be the grand vizier.”

They waited. A mighty roar went up from the hidden crowd.

“Will they be satisfied? This is more than they can ask, surely.”

“I cannot say, lord. This is now a rabble that is out of control. If Musa does not act quickly …”

Before the hour was out they had their answer. The horseman galloped back arrogantly, carrying a bundle.

No one attempted to stop him and he reined in opposite the Imperial Council Hall. He paused significantly so it could be seen that the bundle was Ahmed’s golden cloak of authority.

In a single gesture of contempt he unfurled the cloak and from it tumbled what remained of the secretary. A hideously gruesome head, the white of the skull gleaming through the blood-matted hair, part of the spinal column still attached as token of the ferocity with which he’d been torn to pieces.

Renzi turned away in sick despair.

Musa sought out Sultan Selim. He found him in his garden with Pakize, his favourite concubine.

“Sire, I have to tell you-”

“Can’t you do something for your lord?” spat Pakize. “You’re grand vizier-use your power on that lawless vermin.”

“Khan of Khans, it’s with the utmost sadness that I’m to tell you that the revolt is succeeding. Sire, they now ask … that you yield up the Bayram Throne to another.”

Selim went rigid. “They cannot …”

“My humble self can only pass on what that rebellious horde is demanding, Sire.”

“I will not do it! I, of the House of Osman, my right to rule is handed down to me from Mehmet Fatih himself!”

“Great Lord, this is true but the press of rebels is such that-”

“No! I have still my faithful Janissaries of unquestioned and venerable devotion. Any who dares to approach me will be slain by them without mercy.”

“Sire, my advice-”

“Go-tell the rabble this! Tell them I will never give up my holy inheritance!”

“Very well, my lord.”

“You have gone too far, Musa. The mob howls only to be rid of the godless reformers, not His Sacred Majesty himself! You had no right to-”

“Be silent, Ataullah!” hissed the vizier. “Think. When this dies down and order is restored, Selim will discover for himself our part in raising the rebellion for suppressing the reforms. What then is our future? The only way is to render him powerless. Put another on the throne, even if it be the witless Mustafa.”

“Depose the sultan? This is too much, Musa, even for you. In any case, it’ll turn into a slaughter with the Janissaries still loyal.”

“It has to be done. And I’ve a notion how.”

“Tell me.”

“Is not the root cause of all the protests the same? That infidel ways and unholy alliances with unbelievers lie behind each and every one of these reforms?”

“As I am witness.”

“Then this is why I want you, Ataullah Efendi, Sheyh ul-Islam and leader of the Ulema, to issue a fatwa declaring it permissible-even a sacred obligation-of all to withdraw their loyalty from one who seeks to draw away from the true faith. Preach it to the Janissaries, allow that any who hold back from their greater holy calling will condemn themselves as Zindiqs, worthy of death.”

“Leave the piety to me, Musa. It doesn’t suit your kind.”

“The fatwa?”

“You’ll have it.”

In the late afternoon Renzi was drawn to the viewport by the distant harsh stridency of massed drums, cymbals, a cacophony of other instruments and tramping boots.

Into the courtyard came the brazen colour of the entire corps of Janissaries. They stamped and marched in an irresistible flood until they filled the area before the Gate of Felicity, a discordant blare of trumpets, the visceral thumping of giant drums, a vast, swirling concourse of the fearsome Turkish warrior caste.

A huge figure of a man detached from the others and went to stand in front of the ceremonial gate. He held up his hands to quiet the throng, then turned and bellowed a challenge, so loud it carried clearly up to them.

Zorlu listened. “That is Kabakji Mustafa and he demands the sultan attend on them. He is a troublemaker.”

Apprehensively they watched as the drama unfolded.

There was an impatient pause and the challenge was given again.

Then at the gate Sultan Selim appeared.

“Kabakji Bey. What does this insolence mean? Why have you turned out my loyal Janissaries?”

“We have a fatwa issued by Ataullah Efendi in which you are condemned as no longer fit to rule. Deliver up your throne to us!”

“You are impertinent and treasonable. Go back to your barracks!”

“Sire, you force us to-”

“You haven’t considered this, Kabakji Bey. Without me there is no sultan, the caliphate goes unruled. The crown prince has disappeared and without him you have no successor. You cannot go further.”

The man drew himself up impressively and flung out an arm. It pointed directly to the tower and held.

Renzi pulled back from the window instinctively.

“He wants us to show Prince Mustafa,” Zorlu hissed.

“No!”

“We must.”

“I-I can’t do this to Selim!”

Zorlu pushed past, throwing the grille window wide and thrust Mustafa up to it.

There was an instant roar of recognition and a chant began: “Sultan Mustafa Han! Sultan Mustafa Han!”

Drums rolled and volleyed, and wild shouts of jubilation echoed up.

Renzi went reluctantly to the window to see the entire mass in ecstatic gyrating, waving scimitars-and a single lonely figure. In his rich robes and turban, Sultan Selim gazed up, and even over the distance his look, with its terrible accusation of betrayal, pierced Renzi to his soul.

Slowly, Selim turned about and walked back into his harem.

“So, you have your triumph, Kose Musa,” Ataullah said. “But here’s something that’ll give you pause.”

“Now what can that be, I wonder?” Musa said comfortably, sipping his sherbet.

“Only that the Nizam-i Cedid Army in Edirne has just learned of the rising and is marching back to restore Selim to his powers.”

Musa put down his goblet. “That is not what I wanted to hear.”

“There’s every chance they’ll do it, with their new weapons and numbers.”

“They have to be stopped.”

“There is only one way.”

“If you are saying …”

“I am, Vizier Musa. It’s the only sure cure.”

“Who will do it?”

“That’s your business, is it not?” Ataullah answered silkily.

Renzi heard them. This time muted, subdued. A jingling of accoutrements, the heavy tramp of many boots.

He’d expected them to come. It was logical. An inevitable outcome of the course they had taken.

Dully he watched from the window as the last act began.

“Eunuch Mahmut! Hear me! Deliver up to us the person of Selim Osman, by strict order of the Sultan Mustafa.”

After an interval it was repeated.

“If we must enter, there will be none spared. This is our final word.”

Selim came to the gates, flanked by eunuchs, Pakize clutching him, imploring, tearful.

He saw the bared blades and tried to break free. Two men, stripped to the waist and with scimitars at the ready, darted forward but Pakize threw herself in front of her master. It didn’t stop them-the first swing of the sword laid open her arm and, thrusting aside her shrieking form, Selim was cut down in a merciless hacking until his lifeless body lay still.

Renzi slumped back, stricken by what he’d brought about.

The hunt for the last loyal supporters of Selim went on throughout the city and long into the night.

“We’re safest here,” Renzi told Jago, and his terrified household. He could not admit that, in view of his central part in the uprising, he was more likely to be hailed a hero by the “winning side” than anything. He dreaded the prospect and, just as soon as he could, he would leave this beautiful and terrible place.

Sleep would not come. On the one hand there were the brutal images seared on his memory-that look of Selim’s would haunt him to the end of his days.

But on the other hand he could go back to London and rightly claim that, while the English had been humiliated and banished, he had brought about the same thing for the French. Summarily ejected and identified so thoroughly with the wrong side, they would never be a threat again.

His achievement-at such cost to others-was no less than the saving of empire and the thwarting of Napoleon Bonaparte.

In the early morning a platoon of moustachioed Janissaries came for him. When Zorlu tried to intervene, he was thrown aside.

Renzi was taken to a rough, unsprung carriage, which ground off, out of the courtyard, through the Imperial Gate and into the city. At that hour the streets were deserted and the noise of their passing echoed sharply off the buildings.

He had no idea what was going on and, without Zorlu, could not find out. He tried to remain calm.

After an interminable journey along grey-glistening sea-walls they took a sharp turn inland.

Through the side window Renzi caught a glimpse of a fortress with many towers, which for some reason meant something to him. Then he had it: in his childhood he’d been taken by an illustrated account of old Constantinople. This was the famed Golden Gate, the entry point to the fabled city of the Byzantine emperors, its massive gates then gilded, with four bronze elephants at guard.

Now dour and oppressive, it loomed over him as the gates swung open and they continued on to the shadowed interior.

He was handed over without ceremony and hustled up stone steps to a guarded cell in one of the ancient towers. He was pushed in, the door crashing to behind.

Human stench wafted over him. There was a low bed on either side of the gloomy room, rushes on the floor, a single high, barred window.

A voice behind startled him. He swung around. It was Sebastiani, his arms folded and a cynical smile playing.

“Well, well. Our English lord. How the mighty have fallen.”

Renzi was instantly on guard. So the French were taken too.

How much did Sebastiani know? If his character as an amiable noble fool was penetrated, his worth to Congalton in the future-should ever he get out of here-would be little or nothing.

“These Ottoman dolts, they have no conception how to treat their guests,” Renzi said peevishly. “And what all this means is beyond me. Obviously there’s been some mistake.”

“Oh? If you’re Selim’s friend, it explains everything, don’t you think?”

“We got along together well, I admit. A talented writer, composer-he and I rather enjoyed our few visits.”

“He did speak well of you, I remember. But do tell, when your fleet came you disappeared from mortal ken. We assumed you had been an unfortunate victim of the understandable loathing of the English at the time. Where did you go?”

“Ha!” Renzi spat. “Those accursed Janissaries. They locked me up in some prison, said it was Selim’s orders and that it was for my own protection. I was outraged! I, a noble lord, sitting for days in a cell, like a common felon.”

“It must have been a harrowing experience for you, milord,” Sebastiani soothed, but with a mischievous smile.

“Just so. I had no idea what was going on, no one to talk to and-”

“I do understand. So that is why you took against His Sacred Majesty and warmed to the idea of a revolt.”

Renzi froze. “Why do you say that, General?”

“Why? I do have it as a fact that it was you hid the Prince Mustafa, a necessary pre-condition for any rising.”

“Well, I …”

“A cynic might go on to observe that, for the sacred goal of frustrating us in our legitimate relations with the Sublime Porte, a devious plot might well have been conceived by a high-placed Englishman to overthrow the friends of the French. Yes?”

Renzi allowed a look of astonishment to be quickly replaced by one of gratification. “You really think I could do something like that, General? That’s very kind in you to say. However, I’m embarrassed to admit the concealing was from quite another motive.

“You’ve no idea how expensive travel is in Oriental lands. Simple daily comforts come at extraordinary prices and, to be truthful about it, the delay while you warriors sorted things out between you has been ruinous to my purse. So, when an offer was made by the rebels to … Well, it was difficult to refuse gold in hand, and with Selim having treated me like that …”

“Quite so. And for your efforts you are now rewarded with this.”

“It’s disgraceful! I can only think there’s been some confusion and that when the new sultan discovers what has happened to a noble of England he’ll be sorely angry.”

Sebastiani grunted dismissively and began pacing while Renzi smothered a sigh of relief. It appeared his secret was safe.

“So you really don’t know where you are?”

“No, I do not.”

“Then allow me to enlighten you. You’re in the Yedikule, Fortress of the Seven Towers, the worst hell-hole in Constantinople and reserved for foreign enemies of the state. There has been no mistake-the new order has decided. Above everything, it’s declared we’re both equally infidels and threatening to the old ways. Therefore our prospects are dim.”

Despite himself, Renzi felt a surge of sympathy for the man. Gifted and ruthless, he was a fine servant of his master Bonaparte and, but for Renzi’s coup, would have succeeded in his glorious destiny.

Sebastiani went on moodily, “Either they don’t know what to do with us or they’re taking precautionary hostages. In the first, we’ll probably be an embarrassment and will be eliminated. In the second we could still be here in ten years’ time.”

“We have to get out.”

“There’s no chance of leaving here by our own efforts,” mused Sebastiani. “Any release has to come from outside-influence, bribery, threat. Do you not agree?”

“Oh, well, yes, I imagine you’re right.”

“Now, how are we going to do that?”

“Perhaps by a letter of sorts. To someone we know will help?”

“Very good, milord,” Sebastiani said sarcastically. “And how-”

“Every man has his price,” Renzi said, as casually as he could. “When our gaoler finishes work today he seeks out my steward, for he has my note of hand. It instructs the fellow to hand over a certain sum-”

“Of your thirty pieces of silver!”

“-in return for my letter. This is then sent on urgently by my man. Then the world will know of my unjust sufferings in a Turkish prison.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Sebastiani. “You have it, I’m persuaded. Were it not for one small detail.”

“Oh dear.”

“That he carries not one but two letters. One from me. No offence intended, milord, but I’ve a fancy I have more friends in this part of the world than your good self.”

“Really? The baskani of Gordion, a formidable scholar, is hardly to be scouted as a friend.” His real letter, of course, would not be heading there.

“A good man, but I was thinking of Marshal Marmont in Dalmatia at the head of forty thousand poilu.”

“I see. Well, shall we agree that the first to arrive with succour will take the other?”

“Only if the other accedes to the status of internee, as it were?”

“Agreed.”