It was a disaster. He had been humiliated by the French, forced to answer the sultan’s potent questions with weak generalisations. It was unlikely he would be asked again-or even meet him on another occasion. In the game of manoeuvre and guile with which he had been entrusted by his country, he had failed dismally.
At any point, and without warning, it could all end with the French finally wooing the sultan into their camp and bringing Bonaparte’s plans to success.
Arriving back at his quarters in the darkest of moods, Renzi was quite taken aback by Jago’s polite announcement that the sultan’s gifts were ready for inspection.
They were princely. A kaftan, with richly embroidered patterning in yellow and red, threaded with gold. A stylish white turban, with delicate feathers spraying out from a single emerald. And a pair of spangled red velvet slippers with upturned tips.
A note was attached: Zorlu translated the elegant Persian flourishes as an invitation to spare himself the discomfort of European attire for the more sensible dress of the Turk.
Included, too, was a series of embossed volumes on the history of the Osmanli, the Ottoman house, by an Italian monk. As well, a learned treatise by a Turk on the felicities of Islam translated into unreadable hieratic Greek, and a slim volume, densely ornamented, that had Zorlu draw in his breath sharply.
“This is tesbib, lord,” he said reverently, stroking the little book. “It is Divan poetry, the highest and most ancient form in the land. Even the Seljuk Turks revered its beauty.”
Renzi scanned it quickly. It meant nothing, the Persian script lovingly scribed in flowing swirls and finials, yet it was certainly a thing of exquisite execution.
“What is it about?”
“Fahn’ton Pasha, it tells of the transcendent allure of nature as an expression of the ethereal.
“I will read you some.”
He did, and the sophisticated and ingenious conceits in the flowering of culture moved Renzi.
“Pray tell me, what do these gifts mean?”
“By this we can say that you are placed in a position of respect. A kaftan is usually awarded to viziers and courtiers deemed worthy of reward, but the books-I have not heard of foreigners being so favoured. It can only be he believes that, as a scholar, you will appreciate them.”
“Ah. Is it expected that I will return the princely favour with a gift of my own?”
“That is generally the case, lord.”
A diplomatic envoy would have taken precautions to bring suitable presents-he had nothing.
“If I have no gifts, would it be taken amiss?”
“Formally speaking, it would be seen as disdain, an affront, a rejection of friendliness, but as you are not an envoy, perhaps …”
Renzi racked his brain feverishly. But all he had was paltry indeed after this.
Something …
A little later he handed Zorlu a small packet, tied with a single ribbon. “See that this goes to the sultan with my sincere respects and so forth.”
It had been a sacrifice, but too much was at stake to consider personal feelings and it might even produce a result.
In the early-morning light Renzi struggled to wakefulness.
“M’ lord, do pardon the liberty.”
“Yes, Jago?”
“A summons, m’ lord. From the sultan himself-now.”
A peremptory demand for his presence at this hour? It could mean anything.
“No, not that, Golding. The Turkish costume, I think.”
It felt outlandish and theatrical when he drew it on but it was undeniably comfortable and easy on the body. Even the turban was little hindrance. Passing his totally blank-faced staff, he strode confidently outside, with an approving Zorlu, to the waiting Janissary guards.
But there seemed to be some difficulty. He waited patiently for Zorlu to deal with it.
“Lord, they have orders for your own self, no others. They will not let me go with you.”
There was no arguing with the captain of the guard and, not a little apprehensive, Renzi allowed himself to be escorted away.
They passed through the Gate of Salutation into the second courtyard, deserted so early in the morning, and continued towards the hallowed third courtyard and the sultan’s private spaces. Then through the Gate of Felicity with the Grand Throne Room ahead, specifically placed to hide all sight of what lay within.
Renzi was led along a marble walkway to an impressively colonnaded building, fronted by a grassy expanse with a fountain.
And there, waiting for him, was Sultan Selim. And he was quite alone.
The Janissaries retired.
Hesitantly, Renzi bowed politely in the Turkish way, hand on heart with an inclination of the head, and, at a loss at how he should continue, bade him good morning in English.
“Allah has presented us with a new day,” Selim said, in mellifluous French. “Is it not beautiful?”
In his hands he held the gift, Renzi’s own precious little book, its leather binding so frayed and dark.
“I confess to being consumed with curiosity at your favour, Fahn’ton Pasha. I’m accustomed to rich endowments, jewels, silks, marvels-but you have given me just this. I’m therefore persuaded it has a value far above its appearance and I beg you will tell me more of it.”
“Seigneur, this is my most beloved possession. It is the work of the English poet Wordsworth, and each night I seek solace in its beauty before I sleep. Sir, I could not think of anything more valuable to give in return to the one who presented me with the tesbib, which I will treasure for all my days.”
“You know what it contains?”
“Sire, from Zorlu Bey I have heard its first words in adoration of nature-and was so taken with its delicacy and charm that I was immediately put in mind of my Wordsworth.”
“Really? Then I desire you should read a piece to me.”
Renzi took the book and opened it as they started walking together.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Selim remained silent as he reflected on the words, then turned to face Renzi.
“You are a deeper soul than your manners suggest, Fahn’ton Pasha. You are a thinking man, which is rare in a world of doers, and I warm to you.”
“I’m touched, Seigneur.”
They passed the fountain, its tumbling water just beginning to glitter in the strengthening sun.
“You conceive that I, the sultan, am the possessor of all things, am omnipotent in my domains. Do you not?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile on his sensitive features.
“It is hard to think otherwise, sir-except that not all things in this world are for a mortal’s commanding.”
“Indeed. It is a paradox I have long contemplated-that I do indeed have all power concentrated in my hands. At a word I may have a man’s head struck from his shoulders and none may question why. Yet by that very act I unleash forces in a way perfectly unforeseeable before the event.
“When I must act on a larger stage, where the world is convulsed in tides of conflict and greed, exactly the same paradox applies.”
Renzi remained silent.
“Take my country. My rule is absolute: it cannot be put aside. Yet a wrong word from me can cast it into a tumult of rivalry and strife. For instance, it is apparent to me and, no doubt, to yourself, Fahn’ton Pasha, that unless my people modernise, advance in science and industry, we shall be left to moulder on the dung-heap of history.
“I have tried to introduce reforms. The Grand Mufti Haji Samatar approves without reservation. Mehmed Ataullah Efendi, leader of the Islamic Ulema, is strongly against. Each has his followers so if I support one it will be at the cost of the other’s enmity. Yet this is not the question-that must be not what satisfies them but what is the right and proper course for Ottoman Turkey. My heart says I must press for reform, but should it be at the cost of-of disorder in the realm?”