“And by this he is given an hour only to deliver up the men who took sanctuary. A most terrible decision for him.”
Musa stood respectfully to hear Selim speak.
It mattered little what he said: the reforms were finished, the Nizam-i Cedid disbanded, and the sultan was defenceless against the horde. A pity they were overstepping it, but it handily removed any rivals in the restored Divan.
He looked pityingly at the terrified sultan. This was now the end-game for Selim.
“There is … no alternative, is there?”
“None, Sire.”
“To deliver them up for-for justice.”
“You must.”
“Then leave me for a space, Vizier Musa. I will call on you when I’m ready.”
Selim walked back slowly into the interior of his palace, magnificently decorated in gold and blue tiles, hanging tassels and exquisitely wrought calligraphy picked out in ebony on emerald green. These had been added to down the centuries from the first sultan, Ahmet the Conqueror, bequeathed to each sultan in turn until today they were his.
He stopped in the tulip garden of the fourth courtyard, with its tiered fountains and sublime tranquillity.
The eunuch Nezir Aga came out and bowed.
“Summon our guests.”
One by one they came to the garden, some fearful, others trusting but apprehensive.
Selim returned their obeisance with dignity and the utmost respect. Here were men who had supported him and his efforts to reform, who had stood loyally between him and the forces of reaction and hatred and now looked to him for succour.
“Memish Efendi, Shakir, Safi, my good and loyal servants,” he said, in a low voice. “Allah has decreed that our cause is not yet. Worse, the forces of evil and discontent are in the ascendant.”
In poignant tones he told them what had happened.
“I’m grieved to tell you that your sultan is no longer in control of his fate.”
Their shocked faces looked back at him. If the sultan was not secure in his own harem, their world was turned upside down.
“They demand that you be handed over to them. This I cannot prevent.”
His words brought gasps of disbelief.
“I can, however, render it impossible for them to torment you further.
“Dear friends, I do offer you a clean and quick exit from this sorry world, an end to your terror and striving. Rather than being torn to pieces by the rabble you may meet a swift dispatch by my blade.”
He left them, walking slowly up the garden to the fountain as they fell prostrate to their prayers.
After a decent interval he signalled to Nezir.
“Are you prepared?”
In a line, one by one, they knelt in the beautiful garden.
The eunuch lifted his gleaming scimitar.
Anxious not to leave Prince Mustafa alone for too long, Renzi returned to the eerie quiet of their tent village. He motioned to the observation port. “Keep a watch, Zorlu. Tell me if-”
Then he went over to Prince Mustafa, who was agitated and needed calming.
“Fahn’ton Pasha. I think you must come.”
Zorlu’s voice was unsteady and Renzi hurried to see. A man he recognised as Ahmed, the secretary to Selim, was emerging from the Gate of Felicity. He walked in front of a small cart. Along the sides of it were pikes. On each was impaled a head.
“Good God!” Renzi whispered. “What does this mean?”
“He placates the crowd with the heads of those they seek.”
The lonely figure of Ahmed stepped out, heading for the gate and the baying crowd.
“There goes as brave a fellow as any I’ve seen,” Renzi said quietly.
Zorlu snorted. “It should be the grand vizier.”
They waited. A mighty roar went up from the hidden crowd.
“Will they be satisfied? This is more than they can ask, surely.”
“I cannot say, lord. This is now a rabble that is out of control. If Musa does not act quickly …”
Before the hour was out they had their answer. The horseman galloped back arrogantly, carrying a bundle.
No one attempted to stop him and he reined in opposite the Imperial Council Hall. He paused significantly so it could be seen that the bundle was Ahmed’s golden cloak of authority.
In a single gesture of contempt he unfurled the cloak and from it tumbled what remained of the secretary. A hideously gruesome head, the white of the skull gleaming through the blood-matted hair, part of the spinal column still attached as token of the ferocity with which he’d been torn to pieces.
Renzi turned away in sick despair.
Musa sought out Sultan Selim. He found him in his garden with Pakize, his favourite concubine.
“Sire, I have to tell you-”
“Can’t you do something for your lord?” spat Pakize. “You’re grand vizier-use your power on that lawless vermin.”
“Khan of Khans, it’s with the utmost sadness that I’m to tell you that the revolt is succeeding. Sire, they now ask … that you yield up the Bayram Throne to another.”
Selim went rigid. “They cannot …”
“My humble self can only pass on what that rebellious horde is demanding, Sire.”
“I will not do it! I, of the House of Osman, my right to rule is handed down to me from Mehmet Fatih himself!”
“Great Lord, this is true but the press of rebels is such that-”
“No! I have still my faithful Janissaries of unquestioned and venerable devotion. Any who dares to approach me will be slain by them without mercy.”
“Sire, my advice-”
“Go-tell the rabble this! Tell them I will never give up my holy inheritance!”
“Very well, my lord.”
“You have gone too far, Musa. The mob howls only to be rid of the godless reformers, not His Sacred Majesty himself! You had no right to-”
“Be silent, Ataullah!” hissed the vizier. “Think. When this dies down and order is restored, Selim will discover for himself our part in raising the rebellion for suppressing the reforms. What then is our future? The only way is to render him powerless. Put another on the throne, even if it be the witless Mustafa.”
“Depose the sultan? This is too much, Musa, even for you. In any case, it’ll turn into a slaughter with the Janissaries still loyal.”
“It has to be done. And I’ve a notion how.”
“Tell me.”
“Is not the root cause of all the protests the same? That infidel ways and unholy alliances with unbelievers lie behind each and every one of these reforms?”
“As I am witness.”
“Then this is why I want you, Ataullah Efendi, Sheyh ul-Islam and leader of the Ulema, to issue a fatwa declaring it permissible-even a sacred obligation-of all to withdraw their loyalty from one who seeks to draw away from the true faith. Preach it to the Janissaries, allow that any who hold back from their greater holy calling will condemn themselves as Zindiqs, worthy of death.”
“Leave the piety to me, Musa. It doesn’t suit your kind.”
“The fatwa?”
“You’ll have it.”
In the late afternoon Renzi was drawn to the viewport by the distant harsh stridency of massed drums, cymbals, a cacophony of other instruments and tramping boots.
Into the courtyard came the brazen colour of the entire corps of Janissaries. They stamped and marched in an irresistible flood until they filled the area before the Gate of Felicity, a discordant blare of trumpets, the visceral thumping of giant drums, a vast, swirling concourse of the fearsome Turkish warrior caste.
A huge figure of a man detached from the others and went to stand in front of the ceremonial gate. He held up his hands to quiet the throng, then turned and bellowed a challenge, so loud it carried clearly up to them.
Zorlu listened. “That is Kabakji Mustafa and he demands the sultan attend on them. He is a troublemaker.”
Apprehensively they watched as the drama unfolded.
There was an impatient pause and the challenge was given again.
Then at the gate Sultan Selim appeared.
“Kabakji Bey. What does this insolence mean? Why have you turned out my loyal Janissaries?”
“We have a fatwa issued by Ataullah Efendi in which you are condemned as no longer fit to rule. Deliver up your throne to us!”