The central figure in the whole drama had to be Selim III himself.
From their conquest of the old Byzantine Empire in 1453 onwards, the Ottoman sultans had reigned supreme and unchallenged. And with absolute power, in a manner that had not changed in centuries.
The sultan ruled from his palace through the Divan, a parliament of advisers, headed by the grand vizier. His religious advisers were the Ulema, a body of scholars; the military were dominated by the Janissaries, an elite corps of household troops and bodyguards whose origins were lost in time but whose power and jealously guarded privileges had steadily increased.
The outside world barely touched the existence of the sultan for he remained securely within the magnificence of the great Topkapi Palace where all the instruments of rule were concentrated, with the imperial domestics-from vast kitchens to the mysteries of the seraglio.
And within the grand edifice seethed plots and counter-plots, treachery and guile beyond anything seen in Europe since medieval times. Yet if Renzi was going to counter the French success he had to penetrate to the very heart of it all.
“Mr Zorlu.”
“Zorlu Bey,” the man said, with a short bow.
“Zorlu Bey. This has been a most gratifying discussion. Your powers of summary do you credit and-”
They were interrupted by a footman, who whispered briefly to Zorlu. There was a tone of unease in his voice as he told Renzi, “A gentleman of the palace, Mustafa Tayyar Efendi, has arrived and craves audience with you. Will you see him?”
“What do you counsel?”
“I know him well. The man is of the Reis-ul Kuttab, which you will know as the foreign ministry under the grand vizier. Undoubtedly he comes to see with his own eyes an Englishman who dares to remain in Constantinople at this time. I cannot advise other than not to say anything you do not want to be made instantly known throughout the palace.”
He was an imposing figure, with a ridiculously tall white hat, gold-embroidered robe, ceremonial staff and upturned slippers twinkling with jewels.
His voice was deep and commanding, speaking directly to Renzi.
“He introduces himself, lord.”
“Pray tell him my name and style.”
It was received with an elegant Oriental bow and an immediate reply.
“He asks in the name of Sultan Selim your business in Constantinople,” Zorlu smoothly relayed.
“I rest for a space before I venture to Gordion to admire the new-found tumulus of Midas the king.”
“He confesses he has not heard of this and wonders how such can engage the attention of a noble lord in far England.”
“Do explain that I am a species of scholar sent by the Royal Society to uncover new knowledge of man and his works. I would be much gratified if while I’m here he should effect an introduction of me to any learned philosopher or antiquarian who might assist in this important work.”
“He asks if you are aware that the English have fled Turkey since the threat of their fleet on our shores has been repulsed.”
“I am sorry to hear of it. This is a tiresome distraction but I shall remain here until this distasteful affair passes, as it most assuredly will, before I venture further into the country.”
“He wishes you well of your quest and offers his assistance if required.
“By this, Fahn’ton Pasha, we can know that Mustafa Tayyar Efendi is satisfied with your explanation.”
If the palace knew of his presence then it must be assumed that the French, namely Sebastiani, would, too.
Their response would depend on what they perceived in him. As sons of the revolution, their estimate of him as a nobleman would hopefully be as a despised and leeching fop, no threat to anyone. If not, then his small reputation as a dilettante scholar might pass muster as reason for his presence. If neither …
Renzi felt the creeping insidiousness of personal danger steal into his bowels.
The game had started: there was no going back now.
The next move must be to make himself known to the sultan. That would not only deter the French from a crude “disappearance” but he would have a foot in the door, a first step in redressing the insanely unfair odds against him.
But how?
Nothing suggested itself immediately but a day later Zorlu came to him with an ornate missive and a smile. “Lord, you have been invited to meet the sultan at the Gate of Felicity in the Palace of Topkapi.”
“What does this mean, do you think?” Renzi asked, thunderstruck at the sudden turn of events. Why would Sultan Selim take notice of him at this early point-and grant him a hearing?
Zorlu was not perturbed. “It is politeness only. As a personage of rank you have a right to be among those others who tender their respects to His Imperial Majesty at this time. You should go-your absence would be remarked, Fahn’ton Pasha.”
“Others?”
“You will be one of scores of dignitaries, only some of whom will be noticed. This is the occasion when Sultan Selim makes audience with foreigners. Nothing is expected of outlanders other than they show due respect to the person of the sultan.”
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.