Pasha

by Julian Stockwin

  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, Köse 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 search
es.

  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.