It was therefore nothing personaclass="underline" 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-us 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 formed 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.”