If that didn’t confirm him as a fop and aristocrat …
“I do so sympathise,” Sebastiani replied, with oily charm. “We must keep in touch, have dinner together perhaps. So, milord, a bientot!”
Two objectives met in as many days! The sultan knew of him, and now the French, he was sure, had him down as a harmless fool.
But he was a long way from what had to be achieved. Sebastiani was as cold and ruthless as he’d imagined, and if there was a breath of suspicion, the Frenchman would move promptly and efficiently.
Time was not on his side. He had to find a way to get to Selim. Speak to him, find honeyed words that could match those Sebastiani was pouring into his ears. His optimism receded at the near impossibility of getting access, let alone offering counterarguments-and at the same time preserving his character as a dabbling bookworm.
But he had not long to wait before Zorlu took him aside. “I congratulate you, Fahn’ton Pasha. You underestimate your powers, I believe. I have been approached by the palace on the matter of the sultan’s invitation for you to be his guest.”
“His guest!”
“It is not unprecedented for a foreigner to be so honoured, lord. For those who interest the sultan … and for those he would keep in a velvet cage.”
The game had changed: it was getting deeper, but was this his chance?
Their quarters were discreetly inside the walls within the first courtyard, set back from the path they had taken before. They were commodious, richly decorated with intricate blue and white tiling, marble columns and Arabic texts girdling every room. Gold-leafed filigree adorned arched passageways and the rooms were spread with fabulous carpets; it was as something from Sinbad and One Thousand and One Nights.
“Does it meet with your approval, Jago?” Renzi asked, trying not to be impressed.
“It will do, m’ lord,” the man answered stolidly, as he supervised the household transfer. It was diverting to see him handle the delicacies of delegating duties among the palace servants and his own staff. A young lad with some English was among those assigned from the palace, and harmony was preserved, Golding continuing as personal valet to his lordship and the cook, Henri, mollified with access to his own kitchen area.
There was adjacent accommodation for a dragoman. Renzi was hesitant to offer it again to Zorlu, but the man had already settled himself in before he could broach the subject.
It was now certain that in some way or another he would have the ear of the sultan. Whatever the occasion there would be a meeting. What would he say?
Myriad thoughts crowded in and he began sorting them into logical groupings. First there was-
“Pasha, I hesitate to interrupt your thinking but you should know you will be expected at a feast tonight. For the foreign envoys. It is the expected thing in an Ottoman court.”
“But I’m not an envoy, Zorlu.”
If he was being treated as such, it destroyed in one the trust his independence from state diplomacy brought.
“The feast is not at a high level, lord. To me it appears that Selim uses the occasion of entertaining the envoys as a convenient means to meet you more intimately. Whether from curiosity or … deeper reasons we cannot know.”
“The French will be there.”
“Not necessarily, lord. There are sixty-nine ambassadors now in Constantinople and the choice of invitations is his.”
“Then we must prepare. You will tell me how to behave, Zorlu Bey.”
Even though a lesser affair, the spectacle was grand. As the evening drew in, hundreds of courtiers, dignitaries and clerics, arrayed in sumptuous clothing, began lining the courtyard paths. By the gate the Janissaries formed up, the thunder of their giant drums and cymbals pierced with the sharp notes of reed instruments sounding barbaric and elemental.
In an anteroom the envoys met together. Exotically dressed notables from the inner Balkans mingled with those in Arabic headdress and central Asian gold-threaded tunics. It was Renzi, dressed as a European in silk stockings and breeches, who was the stranger in this part of the world.
He looked about for Sebastiani and the French but did not see them and conversed happily in broken Greek with a genial Turk from the Morea. Zorlu brought up an Egyptian Copt with a pressing desire to meet an Englishman, and Renzi smiled pleasantly in incomprehension at an earnest little man in a colourful waistcoat and swirling trousers.
But just what approach should he take with Selim? Through Zorlu, anything would be measured facts, opinions, not charged with mind-changing revelation of feelings or the subtlety of give and take.
Out of sight trumpets brayed insolently. There was a sudden hush: movement could be heard in the inner room, then several Janissaries in tall white hats appeared at the door and snapped orders.
Renzi went in with the others, and saw Sebastiani-close to Selim.
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.