In the early-morning light Renzi struggled to wakefulness.
“M’ lord, do pardon the liberty.”
“Yes, Jago?”
“A summons, m’ lord. From the sultan himself-now.”
A peremptory demand for his presence at this hour? It could mean anything.
“No, not that, Golding. The Turkish costume, I think.”
It felt outlandish and theatrical when he drew it on but it was undeniably comfortable and easy on the body. Even the turban was little hindrance. Passing his totally blank-faced staff, he strode confidently outside, with an approving Zorlu, to the waiting Janissary guards.
But there seemed to be some difficulty. He waited patiently for Zorlu to deal with it.
“Lord, they have orders for your own self, no others. They will not let me go with you.”
There was no arguing with the captain of the guard and, not a little apprehensive, Renzi allowed himself to be escorted away.
They passed through the Gate of Salutation into the second courtyard, deserted so early in the morning, and continued towards the hallowed third courtyard and the sultan’s private spaces. Then through the Gate of Felicity with the Grand Throne Room ahead, specifically placed to hide all sight of what lay within.
Renzi was led along a marble walkway to an impressively colonnaded building, fronted by a grassy expanse with a fountain.
And there, waiting for him, was Sultan Selim. And he was quite alone.
The Janissaries retired.
Hesitantly, Renzi bowed politely in the Turkish way, hand on heart with an inclination of the head, and, at a loss at how he should continue, bade him good morning in English.
“Allah has presented us with a new day,” Selim said, in mellifluous French. “Is it not beautiful?”
In his hands he held the gift, Renzi’s own precious little book, its leather binding so frayed and dark.
“I confess to being consumed with curiosity at your favour, Fahn’ton Pasha. I’m accustomed to rich endowments, jewels, silks, marvels-but you have given me just this. I’m therefore persuaded it has a value far above its appearance and I beg you will tell me more of it.”
“Seigneur, this is my most beloved possession. It is the work of the English poet Wordsworth, and each night I seek solace in its beauty before I sleep. Sir, I could not think of anything more valuable to give in return to the one who presented me with the tesbib, which I will treasure for all my days.”
“You know what it contains?”
“Sire, from Zorlu Bey I have heard its first words in adoration of nature-and was so taken with its delicacy and charm that I was immediately put in mind of my Wordsworth.”
“Really? Then I desire you should read a piece to me.”
Renzi took the book and opened it as they started walking together.
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Selim remained silent as he reflected on the words, then turned to face Renzi.
“You are a deeper soul than your manners suggest, Fahn’ton Pasha. You are a thinking man, which is rare in a world of doers, and I warm to you.”
“I’m touched, Seigneur.”
They passed the fountain, its tumbling water just beginning to glitter in the strengthening sun.
“You conceive that I, the sultan, am the possessor of all things, am omnipotent in my domains. Do you not?” he asked, with the ghost of a smile on his sensitive features.
“It is hard to think otherwise, sir-except that not all things in this world are for a mortal’s commanding.”
“Indeed. It is a paradox I have long contemplated-that I do indeed have all power concentrated in my hands. At a word I may have a man’s head struck from his shoulders and none may question why. Yet by that very act I unleash forces in a way perfectly unforeseeable before the event.
“When I must act on a larger stage, where the world is convulsed in tides of conflict and greed, exactly the same paradox applies.”
Renzi remained silent.
“Take my country. My rule is absolute: it cannot be put aside. Yet a wrong word from me can cast it into a tumult of rivalry and strife. For instance, it is apparent to me and, no doubt, to yourself, Fahn’ton Pasha, that unless my people modernise, advance in science and industry, we shall be left to moulder on the dung-heap of history.
“I have tried to introduce reforms. The Grand Mufti Haji Samatar approves without reservation. Mehmed Ataullah Efendi, leader of the Islamic Ulema, is strongly against. Each has his followers so if I support one it will be at the cost of the other’s enmity. Yet this is not the question-that must be not what satisfies them but what is the right and proper course for Ottoman Turkey. My heart says I must press for reform, but should it be at the cost of-of disorder in the realm?”
The unspoken conclusion could only be that indecision, doing nothing, was the same as denying reform. It was an impossible quandary and he felt for the man.
“Seigneur, why do you tell me this?” he said carefully.
“Why? You cannot guess? Let us then move to the largest stage of all-a world that is locked in war while Turkey sleeps, dreaming of the centuries. This war is like no other for it is one of world empires pitted one against another, and every part of the civilised globe is drawn into their struggle whether they wish it or no. The same dilemma arises: when nations demand it, which is the right side to take for my country?”
Renzi fought down excitement. It was everything he could have prayed for: the ear of the sultan alone and the very subject raised that he wanted. But he clamped an icy control on himself: any rash or unguarded comment could destroy his position.
“There are no English left in Constantinople,” Selim continued quietly. “All I have are the French, who tell me what they will. What of the other side?”
“Sir, I am but a subject of the Crown of England, not a diplomat, still less an accredited envoy. This is beyond my powers to tell.”
“That is well said, but you have confessed to the heart of the matter-you are English and may be relied on to offer to me an English view of how any matter might be perceived by your countrymen. And at your eminence I dare to say by your king and fellow nobles.”
“If I can be of service in this way to you, Seigneur, it would be my honour to provide it. Is there any question at hand that presses?”
“Since you ask it, Fahn’ton Pasha, my people are at this time in fear and trembling that the English are offended and that the great fleet of Nelson Bey will be sent against us to destroy Constantinople. Is it in your conceiving that the affront is of such a gravity that this will happen?”
Renzi inwardly exulted. It was almost too easy-but he steadied himself, slowing in his walk as if giving it grave thought.
It was ludicrous, of course, to think that the Admiralty would lift the blockade of Cadiz simply to send the warships to Constantinople to teach it a lesson for some trivial slight. But an Oriental people would not see things in the same way, their conception of honour and insult being at quite another remove.
How to put this across without offending Selim?
“Seigneur, while I am not privy to the affairs of state at a high level, as you’ll understand, it would seem to me that in Parliament it would be thought that the present troubles with France would make it inadvisable to send the fleet away. It is probable that they would frown on any slight but would let it pass and be forgotten in the press of concerns nearer home.”
“You would advise then, that this will not happen.”
“Sir, tell your people to sleep easier in their beds. Nelson’s fleet will not trouble them.”
CHAPTER 8
HMS L’A URORE LAY AT ANCHOR in the fleet rendezvous at Tenedos. The burden of fleeing people had made working the ship through the narrows of the Dardanelles the stuff of nightmares but eventually they had all been safely landed ashore. Except the English ambassador, who still lay ailing in Kydd’s cabin.