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 searches.
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.
“Oh?”
“This I declare unto you. There will be a bloodbath-the soldiery will be resisted and the population will turn on them. You will be known for ever more as the Ottoman sultan who took a sword to his own people.”
Tight-faced, Shakir Efendi grated, “He needs to make a move of firmness and strength before it gets out of hand-then you’ll see a bloodbath, take my word on it.”
Musa let them take their positions, allowing the venomous debate to ebb and flow without conclusion, then he spoke. “Excellency, there is another solution.”
It brought quiet and a wary attention.
“Grand Vizier, I’d be gratified to hear it.”
“It is insupportable that a barbarous crowd issues demands to their sultan. Yet you are at the moment in a position of weakness and this is an act of extortion. Lie to them that you will disband the foreign-trained army-having got what they want they will disperse without harm to anyone. Afterwards, in your own time, you may reverse the decree.”
“Ah! It is offensive to our morals to break our word but it does have the merit of immediate effect.”
“Sire!” exploded Shakir. “That robs you of your last defences-don’t listen! You’ll have none to stand at your side against-”
“Shakir Efendi, this is only a temporary shift. When things are calmer I will rescind my words.”
“The crowd is swelling. The common people are joined by traitorous Janissaries. This is madness, Sire! We should-”
“Shakir,” Musa said slyly, “are you questioning your sultan?”
There could be no reply.
It was done.
Musa lifted his eyes to Heaven and murmured a prayer, then serenely addressed Sultan Selim: “Sire, I go now to try to speak to the crowd, tell them of your magnanimous decision. In peril of my life, I do so in the knowledge that it is my sacred duty to my liege khan.”
“Your courage and loyalty are a lesson to us all, Kose Musa. Go with the blessings of Allah.”
“I, the leader of the Ulema, will not stand by in the hour of the caliphate’s need,” intoned Ataullah. “Come, Vizier Musa, let us face what test Allah is bringing us and speak to the congregation together.”
They left in great dignity.
Afterwards the sultan was besieged by frightened ministers who had spoken out for him. “Sire, we’re in great peril-the masses may not disband. I beg you, send for the-”
“We are in the hands of Allah the Merciful,” Selim said weakly. “I go now to my harem.”