It was disturbing that Selim did not visit afterwards. Not that he had anything to say: only when the true reason for the fleet’s presence was known would it be possible to bring to bear rational deliberation.
He was awake at break of day. If there was to be a note of demands it would be delivered promptly. He could only wait.
The morning wore on in hours of tedium.
The situation was unreadable: with the fleet at anchor only eight miles away, there could be no difficulty in getting a message ashore under flag of truce. What was holding them up?
In a fever of impatience he waited. Mid-morning a silent Mahmut arrived to take him to the eyrie. Renzi looked on as Sebastiani was brought in.
“General. We have our demands.”
“You will delay, Seigneur, of course.”
“We have done so. Our water guard refused to recognise the boat’s flag of truce. It was put ashore by a trick, however.”
“May I know its contents, sir?”
“My dragoman will read it to us both.”
So that Renzi could know it, too. In his hiding-place he smiled his appreciation.
A portly man was ushered in. Selim handed him the paper.
“Ah, from the English Admiral Duckworth to the Reis-ul Kuttab.”
“Our foreign minister, as you’ll remember, General.”
“Yes, Sire. And … ?”
Even in the courtly French the demand was baldly stated and brief.
The British viewed the growing influence of the French at the Sublime Porte as intolerable to their existing treaty of alliance. It was demanded that the French agitator Sebastiani and his associates be yielded up under pain of further action.
Sebastiani gave a superior smile, as if throwing off a triviality. Renzi was forced to admire his control and waited with interest for his reaction.
“I have to confess I’m not certain I’m flattered, Sire.”
“Why so, General?”
“This great fleet-to lay hands on my person? I rather think not. It is to a larger purpose-that of removing the only one standing in the way of dismantling your defences against their Russian allies. And I’m determined that you shall not be left at their mercy.”
“How can you say this, sir?”
“Sire, when before I said you had no friends, this may be true in the formal sense. Yet even without an alliance, the august Emperor Napoleon wishes me to do all in my power to assist you, and has empowered me to offer the resources of the empire to resist this insult and safeguard your throne. I will do so.”
“Against the fleet at our gates this very hour?”
“It can be done.”
“Forgive me, General, I cannot see how.”
“Sire, let me bring to your recollection the unbroken string of victories our illustrious emperor has won on the continent of Europe against the most dreadful of foes. The contemptible English successes pale against our laurels. True, they have prevailed in several battles out at sea, but who cares what happens on waters distant from the homeland?”
“Continue, sir.”
“They have foolishly sent their precious fleet to do the work of an army. What can it do? Fire cannon at us, make a lot of frightening noise, but then they must sail away. Without they have an army to land to enforce their demands, it is nonsense and I see no transports with them.”
The dragoman intervened: “I have not yet finished my translation, Great Lord.”
“What else, then?”
It was an alternative demand. If reluctant to yield up the person of Sebastiani to his enemy, the entire Ottoman Navy should be neutralised by the simple device of handing it and its stores over to Admiral Duckworth forthwith. Failing that, the consequences would be very grave-the fleet would close with the city, and Constantinople would be bombarded by the great guns of the battleships until it was entirely levelled to the ground.
“And it concludes by allowing the Sublime Porte half an hour to reply.”
There was a horrified silence.
Sebastiani asked abruptly, “When was this written?”
“At seven this morning.”
“Ha! At least three hours ago-does this seem the act of one determined on action? He would have moved into position by now, Sire.”
But Selim had paled and his hands twisted around a tasselled silk belt. “What can we do? This is a calamity for the Ottoman dynasty beyond believing.”
Sebastiani gave a grim smile, and rapped, “Give me leave to see to our defences, Sire! I will throw a ring of iron about Constantinople that will stand against anything the barbarians can mount against us. All I need is time.”
“But we have no time. The fleet will come and blow us to ruins!”
“Better you stand a hero in the ruins than cravenly surrender to the infidel,” Sebastiani spat. “Your enemies would never stand for it.”
Selim shot a hopeless glance directly at the screen and Renzi instinctively recoiled.
Then he twitched up his robe, as though a decision had been made. “Delay, you said delay. That is what I shall do.”
“Bravely said, Sire. Just a little time is all I’ll need.”
The sultan was still white with shock when he swept into Renzi’s cell.
“Is this the action of a civilised nation? Tell me, Fahn’ton Pasha-will they do it?”
So much hung on what he said next.
Renzi shook his head sorrowfully. “I rather fear Admiral Duckworth will, Sire. He is under orders and dare not disobey his king. Your clear course is to surrender up the Frenchmen and save yourselves and the city from destruction.”
Would this be his crowning moment? Was his persuasion the equal of Sebastiani?
“I’ll-I’ll think on it, Fahn’ton Pasha. It is too great a matter to decide at this time.”
Renzi felt he was teetering on the brink of complete success in his mission-the ejecting of the French and the ruination of Bonaparte’s plans. It was nail-biting but if Duckworth moved quickly and sailed his fleet across in a grand martial display before the famous waterfront of Constantinople the pressure on Selim might do the trick.
If he moved fast.
But another message arrived: it threatened instant destruction-but only if no favourable reply was received by sunset.
Renzi could hardly believe it: Duckworth was throwing away his best chance of bringing everything to a successful conclusion by conceding, for no real reason, a relaxing of terms, and Sebastiani leaped at the opportunity.
Like a demon, he was everywhere setting about the defences, sending out parties to locate every cannon that existed and wheeling them with donkeys and mules through the streets to line up along the shoreline, his promised ring of iron.
Selim hesitated: if the English admiral could see through his telescope to what use the Turks were putting their period of grace he might become enraged and carry out his threat. Was it not better to appease the commander of such an overwhelming force?
Sebastiani was having none of it. With a cunning worthy of his master, he worked on Selim’s fears that a capitulation to demands without a fight implied he was on the side of the infidels, that he was no longer fit to be sultan in the long and illustrious line of the Ottoman dynasty and everyone knew what happened to such creatures.
Renzi’s advice was the same as before, but this time he also tried to paint Selim going down in history as the sultan who had destroyed Constantinople.
It hit home. “The cup of unhappiness has never left my lips, my friend. What am I to do? Where is my duty?”
“Your friends are the English, with whom you have an alliance. Not the French, who betrayed you by offering peace but invading Egypt. You owe it to-”
“Fahn’ton Pasha. I ask you this. If I bow to your English demands, can you save me from the wrath of my shamed people? Where is your promise?”
There was still a chance. If by some means he could get word to Duckworth, he could demand he open the sealed orders he knew all flagships carried with the authorisation for him to act as he saw fit. He could thus instruct the admiral to make a convincing display and land marines sufficient to reassure Selim to take the final step.