“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, Köse 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 Köse 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 Ağa 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 ca
n, 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 Zindīqs, 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, Köse 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.
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