“That is most kind in you, Mr Zorlu. I accept with thanks.”
Renzi eased down in the vast marble bath with weariness. A hesitant Golding waited with towels but the burly attendants, stripped to the waist, were having none of it. He was helped to a nearby slab and the pair set about pummelling and slapping until his aches had dissolved in a flood of pleasure.
It took an effort of will to resist the temptation to let anxieties and concerns recede and resign himself to rest, but he couldn’t. Not with matters reaching a climax as they were.
He dressed and asked Zorlu to join him in the guest-suite reception room.
Pleasantries were exchanged, then Zorlu asked, “Pasha, your unworthy servant begs forgiveness for his impertinence in asking your reasons for visiting us.”
He lowered his head politely and Renzi could see no hint of the import of his question in his eyes. But he had made up his mind to trust no one.
“I flatter myself that I am a scholar of some merit and, having heard of the discoveries at Gordion, I have a desire to see them at the first hand.”
“I understand, lord. If there is any office I may provide it would be my honour to serve you.”
Was that an edge of deeper understanding, an intimation of complicity?
Renzi was not sure but his mission was not to be risked in a misplaced trust. Yet the man was still loyal to his English employers, evidenced by his remaining in post where many would have fled. His account of the situation might well be worth hearing.
Renzi motioned him to a chair.
The French, it seemed, had for many years desired influence at the court of the Ottoman sultan, Selim III, and to this end had lavished gifts and attention on him. It had all counted for nothing: in 1798 Bonaparte had invaded Ottoman Egypt, bent on conquest and empire, destroying years of intrigue. Offended, the Sublime Porte had appealed to the British and the result had been a treaty of friendship and alliance that still existed-just.
At the peace of Amiens in 1802 Bonaparte had industriously set about restoring relations. This time it was not merely presents but military advisers, training battalions, even cannon. The sultan had formed a new branch of his army, trained in the latest methods by the French, and was looking to build on it a new and reformed military. He therefore had every interest in cultivating a close relationship and was known to admire Napoleon the Conqueror.
The most formidable of these was the energetic and capable French ambassador. A serving general and favourite of Bonaparte, Horace Sebastiani was young, intelligent, wily and ruthless in his furthering of French influence. He had captured the attention of Selim and was feared and admired by those in his court. His thrust and resolution in acting for what he desired made him a deadly opponent.
Renzi nodded. This was valuable to know, even if it showed just what titanic obstacles he himself faced. However there must be an entry point into the situation-the French were not yet in control.
The central figure in the whole drama had to be Selim III himself.
From their conquest of the old Byzantine Empire in 1453 onwards, the Ottoman sultans had reigned supreme and unchallenged. And with absolute power, in a manner that had not changed in centuries.
The sultan ruled from his palace through the Divan, a parliament of advisers, headed by the grand vizier. His religious advisers were the Ulema, a body of scholars; the military were dominated by the Janissaries, an elite corps of household troops and bodyguards whose origins were lost in time but whose power and jealously guarded privileges had steadily increased.
The outside world barely touched the existence of the sultan for he remained securely within the magnificence of the great Topkapi Palace where all the instruments of rule were concentrated, with the imperial domestics-from vast kitchens to the mysteries of the seraglio.
And within the grand edifice seethed plots and counter-plots, treachery and guile beyond anything seen in Europe since medieval times. Yet if Renzi was going to counter the French success he had to penetrate to the very heart of it all.
“Mr Zorlu.”
“Zorlu Bey,” the man said, with a short bow.
“Zorlu Bey. This has been a most gratifying discussion. Your powers of summary do you credit and-”
They were interrupted by a footman, who whispered briefly to Zorlu. There was a tone of unease in his voice as he told Renzi, “A gentleman of the palace, Mustafa Tayyar Efendi, has arrived and craves audience with you. Will you see him?”
“What do you counsel?”
“I know him well. The man is of the Reis-ul Kuttab, which you will know as the foreign ministry under the grand vizier. Undoubtedly he comes to see with his own eyes an Englishman who dares to remain in Constantinople at this time. I cannot advise other than not to say anything you do not want to be made instantly known throughout the palace.”
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 Sebastiani, 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.”