“That I am familiar with the region and am no stranger to travel is known at the Royal Society, who have pressed me most ardently.”
“Well, you will be careful, won’t you, dear? You have responsibilities now, remember.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Cecilia leaned across and kissed him lightly. “You will take care, darling-for us both?”
CHAPTER 7
THE LARGE, SQUARE, UNSPRUNG COACH lurched and rattled as it approached the Ottoman capital. It was a hired carriage of the best that could be mustered for an English lord but was sadly lacking the refinements to be expected at Eskdale and smelt dank, of old leather and ancient grime.
Behind, a covered wagon followed with the impedimenta of the expedition, then the bulk of the entourage clutching the side of a large cart of exotic appearance, and a few on horseback. In front trotted their hired escort, a troop of Turkish cavalry. It had been pressed on them by the Pasha of Murath, horrified that an English noble crossing his territory was in danger of being robbed with consequences to himself if the Porte got to hear of it.
Renzi rode in stately isolation but for Ackworth, his secretary. He had chosen the man himself: a petty, shrewish and self-important individual, he would be oblivious to the implications of what was going on around him and have no curiosity about it either. Ideal for what he was about to do.
Jago had understood what was wanted in the other staff. It was the minimum required: the quiet Golding was his valet, assisted by Miller, a strong young man acting as general servant and footman; his cook was Henri, a second-generation Lincolnshire man with absurd claims to French ancestry.
As was the custom, local hirelings were taken on for domestics; Lord Farndon, of course, was not to be troubled in this matter. Jago, with his talent for communication and the smoothing of cultural difficulties, ably took charge.
It had worked well and a camaraderie of Englishmen together in foreign parts had grown.
Renzi had his support retinue. The rest was up to him.
At Bayrampasa, the city walls came into view. The fabulous and mythical Constantinople lay ahead. They stopped at a last han, a roadside hostelry.
It was time to set the mission in motion. To achieve a foothold in the city, Renzi knew he had to make a presence in the shortest possible time. A galloper from the Turkish troop was sent bearing a courteous note to inform Arbuthnot, the ambassador, that Constantinople was about to host an English earl.
Renzi settled down to await events, changing from his plain but serviceable travelling clothes to the rich coat and breeches expected of a noble visitor.
When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a dignified Turk, with a lined face and neatly trimmed black beard. His jewelled turban proclaimed him someone of consequence.
Miller held his horse while he dismounted. After a low bow in the European fashion, the man stood before Renzi.
“My name is Doruk Zorlu, lord,” he said, in good English. “And I am first secretary to his excellency.”
“Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall. I’m here to-”
“Fahn’ton Pasha. I have to tell you that his excellency cannot entertain you. He is … is no longer in Constantinople.”
“Rest assured, I am in no hurry, Mr Zorlu.”
The man took a step closer and said, in a troubled voice, “Pasha, it is not safe for you here. I must ask you to go back. There is feeling against the English, a rising up of the people against them.”
“I will take that risk. Thank you for telling me.”
“No! You must not stay!”
Renzi felt a prick of unease. “Pray why not?”
“Pasha, the ambassador and all the English have this day left Constantinople in a ship. They fear that they’ll be taken hostage by the sultan for security against an attack by the British.”
“What? This is madness! We are allies, friends of the sultan.”
“It is a rumour only, but the people are listening to anything. You must go.”
Renzi froze. This meant that in the war of influence the French had all but succeeded. With a clear field and the sultan’s ear it would be only a matter of time and they would complete Bonaparte’s plan.
Was there anything he could do to stop it happening? Was it too late?
His duty, however, was plain. In view of the colossal stakes, his safety was of secondary importance; he had to make the attempt.
“Oh dear. This is dreadful news,” he said sorrowfully. “Dreadful. And I was so looking forward to my travels in Asia Minor. There is a service I’d greatly appreciate, Mr Zorlu. I’m so very fatigued after my journey and must rest. Have you knowledge of an inn of repute where I might stay in safety?”
Zorlu looked at him steadily. “You plan to remain in Constantinople then, Fahn’ton Pasha.”
“For a short while. Until this little unpleasantness is over.”
“Very well. Then there is a suggestion I have that I’m sure would be what the ambassador would wish. Pasha, there is a guest suite within the embassy in Pera. You and your retinue shall be accommodated there.”
“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.