Only one thing was morally certain in all this. He had been right to refuse Cecilia’s begging to accompany him.
Dear, sweet, darling Cecilia.
His eyes pricked and a wave of helpless emotion engulfed him. But in the darkness there was no one to see the tears.
The officer stalked into the barracks in Rumeli Kavak. He was a proud, trained captain in the Nizam-i Cedid and despised these yamaks, low-grade Circassian and Albanian auxiliaries, but he had his orders. Unwise ones, in his opinion, but from the very highest level, requiring his command to show their loyalty to the sultan by throwing aside their colourful traditional garb and putting on the new order uniforms of the reformed army.
They wouldn’t like it, but he was making sure of it by refusing to hand over their quarterly pay to any not in the new uniform.
Loudly he told them, not bothering to hide his contempt.
There was murmuring, which turned to shouts.
“Astsubay,” he roared at his sergeant. “Show these dogs!”
But the sergeant with the uniforms held back at the ugly press of men now bunching truculently in front of him.
“Go on! Don’t be afraid of such as these. They’re vermin and must obey orders!”
A dangerous edge lay on the shouts now and a burly yamak pushed himself to the front and folded his arms defiantly. “We don’t wear those accursed infidel goat-skins!” he snarled. “As Allah is my witness.”
The officer swaggered forward. “You’re an impudent fool. You’ll take my orders or suffer.”
The big yamak held his eyes with a sneer. Annoyed, the officer swept back his horse crop and made to slash the man across the face, but a beefy arm seized it. Astonished, the officer tried to free it but in one movement he was yanked forward off balance and a fist took him full in the face.
He cried out in outrage and crumpled to his knees. With a savage growl the yamak brought his linked fists down on the officer’s neck and he slumped to the ground.
“Damn him and his kind to hell!”
It released a fury and the officer disappeared under a hail of fists and clubs. The sergeant looked on in horror and turned to flee but was tripped and fell under an onslaught of murderous battering.
“We’ve nothing to lose but our yokes!” the man roared. “Let’s put an end here and now to this new order blasphemy. Follow me, those who have the heart and stomach to stop the desecration of our sacred fathers’ memory!”
There was a swelling uproar and yamaks spilled out into the night, whooping and yelling. It brought others, and the fever spread. Officers panicked and tried to flee but the soldiers knew they were untouchable, and years of degradation at the hands of the arrogant Nizam-i Cedid drove them on into open revolt.
The deputy grand vizier laid down the scribbled message with a smile. “There. It sufficed. We have our rising.”
“As Allah allows, Kose Musa,” chided Mehmed Ataullah, leader of the Ulema, but there was an air of triumph about him. “Now you must face Selim, of course.”
“Not yet,” Musa said smoothly. “Let matters take their course, mature a little.”
The sultan’s urgent summons came later, but he was ready.
“Great Khan, this is terrible news.”
“It is, Vizier. It has to be stopped before it spreads.” The sultan was pale and agitated.
“Yes, Sire. I’ve sent agents out to determine the ringleaders and await their return, but whatever else, we must not be seen to give it too much attention or we’ll be thought to fear the wretches.”
“We can stop it-call out the Nizam-i Cedid.”
“I cannot approve of that, Ghazi Sultan. Craving your forgiveness, it has to be said they are not admired absolutely and their appearance may well bring on the very situation we fear. It is a delicate situation and only level-headed leadership will answer.”
“So?”
“To prevent a conflagration, the Nizam-i Cedid should receive orders to remain in their barracks in Levend Chiftlik until the rising is put down. The Janissaries here-of long and ancient loyalties-will be sufficient to safeguard the palace, Supreme Lord.”
“Are you sure that … ?”
“It will be sufficient, Sire.”
Jago appeared before Renzi. “A Turk o’ sorts presents you with this ’un. Didn’t stay, m’ lord.”
It was the polite gift of a piece of gold cloth embroidered with an elaborate calligraphic device. There was no mistaking its significance.
“Thank you, Jago. We will have a guest. Do make up a tent or such next to mine, will you?”
“Yes, m’ lord.” Would nothing shake his impassive air?
Prince Mustafa was a deathly pale, willowy young man, with eyes like a frightened dove’s.
“I greet Your Highness and fear my hospitality is not that to which you are accustomed.”
It seemed it would be adequate in the circumstances.
“Here is Master Jago. He is to attend to your every want, in so far as we can oblige.”
Jago’s real instructions were never to leave his side and, above all, to make certain that he never showed himself.
The clock was ticking.
Musa worked energetically. To succeed, the rising must look spontaneous and widespread.
To this end he first penned, in his elegant Persian script, a firman from Sultan Selim himself requiring his Nizam-i Cedid to remain in their barracks and not to move out without explicit orders from himself. This was sent with all dispatch.
Next he called about him his trusted lieutenants. “Go to the Janissaries. Tell them that at last the time has come to seize back the honour that is rightfully theirs-they have been presented by Heaven with a once only opportunity to rid their world of these ungodly reforms and so forth. Get them to join with the yamaks to make certain the cause is triumphant, for the Nizam-i Cedid cannot interfere.
“Tell them also that they have a champion, one to stand for them against Selim’s misguided reforms. Prince Mustafa is free and in hiding now but will reveal himself when the time is right.”
That night every corner of Constantinople was alive with excitement and disquiet, rumours of Janissaries rising up, bands of yamaks inviting the common people under their banner-and then it began.
Musa knew it would: now with a cause, a leading figure and the hated Nizam-i Cedid on a leash there was everything to win. The people were on the march-for Constantinople and the palace of the sultan.
He sighed with satisfaction. It was proceeding far better than he had anticipated. The Army over at Levend Chiftlik had no inkling of what was going on for he had blocked access and they remained there, waiting for word from their sultan.
With the masses surging towards Constantinople there would now be an irresistible pressure on Selim to abandon his plans to join with the French and the comfortable old ways would return, but with quite a different power-sharing at the highest.
Renzi stood with Zorlu at the viewing port, looking out over the city. In place of the quiet of the night there were now lights twinkling everywhere, noise eddying up from the streets, faint shouts, and an electric atmosphere that was heavy with pent-up menace.
They didn’t speak-Renzi couldn’t bring himself to make conversation in the face of what was happening before his eyes.
Earlier he had watched from this lookout as search-parties of eunuchs and Janissaries hurriedly fanned out over the palace looking for the crown prince. It must have been a shock to Selim: that he held the only credible figure on whom unrest might centre was his guarantee of personal security. Now with the prince missing it was an ominous signal that something was in the wind.
There was a sudden hammering at the door below. Renzi motioned frantically to Mustafa, who disappeared into one of the tents. Then he flew down the stairs, followed by Zorlu.
If this was a search, without doubt none of them would ever see another dawn.
Heart pounding, Renzi opened the door. It was a Janissary officer, behind him others. He barked a series of commands. Then, astonishingly, he turned and left with his men.