An image of Cecilia thrust itself unbearably into his mind. All he had to do was to wait it out and he would eventually be back in her arms in the opulence of Eskdale Hall and …
He crushed the thought and focused on the present. How much did he believe in his mission? An assassination would achieve its object-there would be no alliance, no road to India and empire for Bonaparte. Almost certainly an immeasurable adversity to his country would have been forestalled and it was in his power to do it.
It was not too late-for if he drew back, didn’t go through with it, no one would ever know.
But he would have to live with the failure for the rest of his life.
At some time in the early hours another possibility emerged. A slender, much less certain alternative, but it would mean Selim need not die.
He had heard the sultan himself admit he had adversaries among those who opposed reform. Was there any chance of an uprising? A revolution of sorts that would strip Selim of his powers, go against his friends the French?
He had no idea, and in any case, the thought of his playing a part in something like that was laughable.
Or was it?
A tiny shoot of a stratagem sprang into existence. Yes, it might be possible.
He knew nothing of the factions that seethed in the Ottoman capital-but Zorlu did.
This was now at a different plane of danger entirely. If any suspected what he was plotting it would be a cruel and barbarous death in prospect. He would be putting his life and cause into the hands of one man.
Zorlu had professed a love of England, but it was not his native land. Would he give his support to a rising against his sovereign lord, Sultan Selim? Quite apart from the personal danger, would he see the cause as more important than the inevitable anarchy and bloodshed? It was asking a lot of the man, and if Renzi had misjudged him it would be all over for himself.
Yet if he didn’t attempt to win over Zorlu, he must fall back on the first sanction.
In the morning came news. The Russians, barred from the Dardanelles, had hit on an ingenious solution. They in turn were blockading the same strait to Turkish shipping, cutting off Constantinople from the outer world and its trade, at a stroke touching the lives of every inhabitant in the land.
As it began to bite, there would be unrest and ugly scenes: the scenario any zealous anarchist could wish for. Renzi had to make his move soon.
“Zorlu. A word, if I may?”
He started by sorrowing for the destiny of Turkey at the hands of France, the inevitable taking over of every position of power: if Bonaparte were to retain his longed-for route to glory, he would not leave anything to chance in this priceless strategic asset. The fate of the people, their traditions, their freedom.
Carefully he brought the subject around to Selim, a sultan who had probably made the wrong decision and very shortly would go ahead with it-if he was not stopped.
Zorlu listened without comment.
Renzi then went on innocently to enquire if there was any likelihood that he would be overthrown by a faction, say, one opposed to reform.
“Lord, let me tell you something of the situation, remembering that false-hearted viziers never show their true fidelity until circumstances dictate.”
“I understand, Zorlu. Please go on.”
“On the one hand we have those who crave reform and entry to the modern world, and are Sultan Selim’s most ardent followers. Chief of these, you may say, is the grand vizier, Ibrahim Hilmi Pasha, and the grand mufti, Haji Samatar, is loud in his support. There are others, but these two are the ones he may count upon.
“In those against his reforms we may especially note the Janissaries, who have ancient privileges and much power, but they are held in check by the rising new army trained by the French, the Nizam-i Cedid, which has modern weapons and discipline and is hated by them.”
“So there’s no central figure who might be considered a focus for the discontented?”
“Lord, that is difficult to say. No man dare tell the world he stands against the sultan, but I have heard the leader of the Ulema, Mehmed Ataullah, utter words unbecoming.”
“The Ulema?”
“The highest body of Muslim legal scholars, making him a powerful man.”
“So no one of stature in the Army, say?”
“There are many, but none openly declared to be in opposition. A personage of note, however, and a sly, treacherous fox, is the deputy grand vizier, one Kose Musa, who I’m certain harbours secret desires of his own.”
“Then, as far as you know, there are none actively plotting against Sultan Selim?”
“They dare not move while the forces are balanced so.”
“Is there not a crown prince of sorts they may push forward to replace Selim?”
“If you mean Prince Mustafa, although he stands to inherit the Osman Sultanate, they will have a weak enough reed to rest their hopes on-he has since birth been reared and confined within the harem, dissipating his life in pleasures of the flesh. It is said he has never once set foot outside the palace.”
Zorlu looked at Renzi intently, his eyes troubled. “Fahn’ton Pasha, why are you asking me these things?”
“Zorlu, please bear with me. I have one final question: in your opinion, if the disaffected saw a chance to rise up by reason of a favourable external circumstance, would they at all?”
“I will tell you directly. There is much hatred of the sultan’s reforms and the situation is volatile. But it will never happen while the grand vizier reigns and the Nizam-i Cedid remains loyal, as it most assuredly will.”
Renzi had his answer. There would be no revolt. That left only one course and he must do it. He knew of no other who would.
It had to be the knife. His heart cringed at the vision of his assassin’s blade ending the existence of one who had befriended and trusted him, but there was no other way. Possibly, if it happened at night in his third-floor apartment, he could open the grilled window wide and thrust the body through. Later it would be found at the base of the tower.
He was checked in his thoughts. Where was the morality, the pity in him? How could he contemplate cold-blooded murder so dispassionately?
It was his logic. The merciless outworking of that part of him that had always kept him aloof from the world and its perplexities.
Securing a knife was no problem. He extravagantly admired a curved, ornamented dagger worn by one of the eunuchs and offered to buy it as a souvenir to take back to England. A working weapon for those entrusted with guarding the harem, its exotically fashioned hilt was in complete contrast to the lightly blued wicked blade.
He concealed it behind a tent’s draperies and prepared himself. There was no knowing when Selim would appear so he put it about that he valued his privacy and wished to be left alone.
The blockade was taking its toll and there were noisy disturbances out on the streets. Renzi gave a half-smile-it was turning into a naval war after all. The French had been wrong about that but could do nothing to counter it and therefore Selim had much to concern himself with.
When his supper was brought, he heard word had come from Roumelia, at the Wallachia border along the Danube. The Russians were massing. Orders were given, and the grand vizier left with his best troops to confront them.
The decision was also made that the Russian blockade had to be broken. The Turkish Navy was concentrated together in a battle squadron and sailed to meet the Russians.
This was now a different matter. The Navy was obligated to Selim for his reforms, which had brought it into the modern world, and fiercely loyal-but now the entire fleet was sailing south and was out of reach.
With the grand vizier leaving for Roumelia, Selim had few supporters. However, he still had the loyalty of the Nizam-i Cedid, which safely outnumbered even the Janissaries and all of the others in Constantinople.
But they were quartered in Levend Chiftlik, across the water, in recognition of their controversial presence.