“I will tell you how you can do it, Dmitry. First you need a base, and what better than here at Tenedos? Now, blockade is in several depths and …”
Kydd went on to describe the complex multi-layered organisation that he’d first learned of in Teazer and the Channel fleet, the small ships to intercept, the larger to threaten retaliation for a sally, the constant sea-keeping with victualling support, the vigilance and steadfastness.
Senyavin was a swift learner and saw that, with the Black Sea fleet turned active at the opposite end, the result would be the entire Dardanelles and Bosporus a dead zone for the Turks.
“I’m grateful indeed for your advice, my friend. I rather think I will do it …”
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 Sébastiani.
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 Köse 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 t
hat 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.
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