Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

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

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

  “He introduces himself, lord.”

  “Pray tell him my name and style.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  But how?

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

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

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

  “Others?”

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

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

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

  “Which is?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Why should I trust you, Zorlu?”

  “Because my father would honour you for it.”

  “Your father?”

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

  “Go on.”

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

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

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

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

  “The first courtyard,” murmured Zorlu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The sultan spoke in a pleasant baritone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  A gracious inclination of the head.

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

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

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

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

  “Why did they hold my arms?”

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

  “And if—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Quite so, Monsieur l’Ambassadeur.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “His guest!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “But I’m not an envoy, Zorlu.”

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

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

  “The French will be there.”

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

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

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