Pasha (21 page)

“Lord Farndon of Eskdale Hall. I'm here to—”

“Fahn'ton Pasha. I have to tell you that his excellency cannot entertain you. He is … is no longer in Constantinople.”

“Rest assured, I am in no hurry, Mr Zorlu.”

The man took a step closer and said, in a troubled voice, “Pasha,
it is not safe for you here. I must ask you to go back. There is feeling against the English, a rising up of the people against them.”

“I will take that risk. Thank you for telling me.”

“No! You must not stay!”

Renzi felt a prick of unease. “Pray why not?”

“Pasha, the ambassador and all the English have this day left Constantinople in a ship. They fear that they'll be taken hostage by the sultan for security against an attack by the British.”

“What? This is madness! We are allies, friends of the sultan.”

“It is a rumour only, but the people are listening to anything. You must go.”

Renzi froze. This meant that in the war of influence the French had all but succeeded. With a clear field and the sultan's ear it would be only a matter of time and they would complete Bonaparte's plan.

Was there anything he could do to stop it happening? Was it too late?

His duty, however, was plain. In view of the colossal stakes, his safety was of secondary importance; he had to make the attempt.

“Oh dear. This is dreadful news,” he said sorrowfully. “Dreadful. And I was so looking forward to my travels in Asia Minor. There is a service I'd greatly appreciate, Mr Zorlu. I'm so very fatigued after my journey and must rest. Have you knowledge of an inn of repute where I might stay in safety?”

Zorlu looked at him steadily. “You plan to remain in Constantinople then, Fahn'ton Pasha.”

“For a short while. Until this little unpleasantness is over.”

“Very well. Then there is a suggestion I have that I'm sure would be what the ambassador would wish. Pasha, there is a guest suite within the embassy in Pera. You and your retinue shall be accommodated there.”

“That is most kind in you, Mr Zorlu. I accept with thanks.”

Renzi eased down in the vast marble bath with weariness. A hesitant Golding waited with towels but the burly attendants, stripped to the waist, were having none of it. He was helped to a nearby slab and the pair set about pummelling and slapping until his aches had dissolved in a flood of pleasure.

It took an effort of will to resist the temptation to let anxieties and concerns recede and resign himself to rest, but he couldn't. Not with matters reaching a climax as they were.

He dressed and asked Zorlu to join him in the guest-suite reception room.

Pleasantries were exchanged, then Zorlu asked, “Pasha, your unworthy servant begs forgiveness for his impertinence in asking your reasons for visiting us.”

He lowered his head politely and Renzi could see no hint of the import of his question in his eyes. But he had made up his mind to trust no one.

“I flatter myself that I am a scholar of some merit and, having heard of the discoveries at Gordion, I have a desire to see them at the first hand.”

“I understand, lord. If there is any office I may provide it would be my honour to serve you.”

Was that an edge of deeper understanding, an intimation of complicity?

Renzi was not sure but his mission was not to be risked in a misplaced trust. Yet the man was still loyal to his English employers, evidenced by his remaining in post where many would have fled. His account of the situation might well be worth hearing.

Renzi motioned him to a chair.

The French, it seemed, had for many years desired influence at the court of the Ottoman sultan, Selim III, and to this end had lavished gifts and attention on him. It had all counted for nothing: in 1798 Bonaparte had invaded Ottoman Egypt, bent on conquest
and empire, destroying years of intrigue. Offended, the Sublime Porte had appealed to the British and the result had been a treaty of friendship and alliance that still existed—just.

At the peace of Amiens in 1802 Bonaparte had industriously set about restoring relations. This time it was not merely presents but military advisers, training battalions, even cannon. The sultan had formed a new branch of his army, trained in the latest methods by the French, and was looking to build on it a new and reformed military. He therefore had every interest in cultivating a close relationship and was known to admire Napoleon the Conqueror.

The most formidable of these was the energetic and capable French ambassador. A serving general and favourite of Bonaparte, Horace Sébastiani was young, intelligent, wily and ruthless in his furthering of French influence. He had captured the attention of Selim and was feared and admired by those in his court. His thrust and resolution in acting for what he desired made him a deadly opponent.

Renzi nodded. This was valuable to know, even if it showed just what titanic obstacles he himself faced. However there must be an entry point into the situation—the French were not yet in control.

The central figure in the whole drama had to be Selim III himself.

From their conquest of the old Byzantine Empire in 1453 onwards, the Ottoman sultans had reigned supreme and unchallenged. And with absolute power, in a manner that had not changed in centuries.

The sultan ruled from his palace through the Divan, a parliament of advisers, headed by the grand vizier. His religious advisers were the Ulema, a body of scholars; the military were dominated by the Janissaries, an elite corps of household troops and bodyguards whose origins were lost in time but whose power and jealously guarded privileges had steadily increased.

The outside world barely touched the existence of the sultan for he remained securely within the magnificence of the great Topkapi
Palace where all the instruments of rule were concentrated, with the imperial domestics—from vast kitchens to the mysteries of the seraglio.

And within the grand edifice seethed plots and counter-plots, treachery and guile beyond anything seen in Europe since medieval times. Yet if Renzi was going to counter the French success he had to penetrate to the very heart of it all.

“Mr Zorlu.”

“Zorlu Bey,” the man said, with a short bow.

“Zorlu Bey. This has been a most gratifying discussion. Your powers of summary do you credit and—”

They were interrupted by a footman, who whispered briefly to Zorlu. There was a tone of unease in his voice as he told Renzi, “A gentleman of the palace, Mustafa Tayyar Efendi, has arrived and craves audience with you. Will you see him?”

“What do you counsel?”

“I know him well. The man is of the Reis-ül Kuttab, which you will know as the foreign ministry under the grand vizier. Undoubtedly he comes to see with his own eyes an Englishman who dares to remain in Constantinople at this time. I cannot advise other than not to say anything you do not want to be made instantly known throughout the palace.”

He was an imposing figure, with a ridiculously tall white hat, gold-embroidered robe, ceremonial staff and upturned slippers twinkling with jewels.

His voice was deep and commanding, speaking directly to Renzi.

“He introduces himself, lord.”

“Pray tell him my name and style.”

It was received with an elegant Oriental bow and an immediate reply.

“He asks in the name of Sultan Selim your business in Constantinople,” Zorlu smoothly relayed.

“I rest for a space before I venture to Gordion to admire the new-found tumulus of Midas the king.”

“He confesses he has not heard of this and wonders how such can engage the attention of a noble lord in far England.”

“Do explain that I am a species of scholar sent by the Royal Society to uncover new knowledge of man and his works. I would be much gratified if while I'm here he should effect an introduction of me to any learned philosopher or antiquarian who might assist in this important work.”

“He asks if you are aware that the English have fled Turkey since the threat of their fleet on our shores has been repulsed.”

“I am sorry to hear of it. This is a tiresome distraction but I shall remain here until this distasteful affair passes, as it most assuredly will, before I venture further into the country.”

“He wishes you well of your quest and offers his assistance if required.

“By this, Fahn'ton Pasha, we can know that Mustafa Tayyar Efendi is satisfied with your explanation.”

If the palace knew of his presence then it must be assumed that the French, namely Sébastiani, would, too.

Their response would depend on what they perceived in him. As sons of the revolution, their estimate of him as a nobleman would hopefully be as a despised and leeching fop, no threat to anyone. If not, then his small reputation as a dilettante scholar might pass muster as reason for his presence. If neither …

Renzi felt the creeping insidiousness of personal danger steal into his bowels.

The game had started: there was no going back now.

The next move must be to make himself known to the sultan. That would not only deter the French from a crude “disappearance” but he would have a foot in the door, a first step in redressing
the insanely unfair odds against him.

But how?

Nothing suggested itself immediately but a day later Zorlu came to him with an ornate missive and a smile. “Lord, you have been invited to meet the sultan at the Gate of Felicity in the Palace of Topkapi.”

“What does this mean, do you think?” Renzi asked, thunderstruck at the sudden turn of events. Why would Sultan Selim take notice of him at this early point—and grant him a hearing?

Zorlu was not perturbed. “It is politeness only. As a personage of rank you have a right to be among those others who tender their respects to His Imperial Majesty at this time. You should go—your absence would be remarked, Fahn'ton Pasha.”

“Others?”

“You will be one of scores of dignitaries, only some of whom will be noticed. This is the occasion when Sultan Selim makes audience with foreigners. Nothing is expected of outlanders other than they show due respect to the person of the sultan.”

It was therefore nothing personal: he would be one among many.

“There is one matter, Fahn'ton Pasha, that requires you decide first.”

“Which is?”

“It is customary in Constantinople for all those at an eminence, whether in commerce, diplomacy or at a rank in society, to appoint a dragoman. This gentleman is more than a reliable translator, he is an adviser on matters cultural and procedural for his patron. Yet it is my duty to you to point out that by his position he will necessarily know your business confidences and movements and speak what he will to the other. Your trust in him therefore must be absolute.”

This was advice that could not be ignored. Setting aside all other concerns he was effectively at the mercy of whatever the
dragoman said. And if ever he was miraculously able to speak freely to the sultan then it would always be through this man, who would have the potential to spy, blackmail or betray him.

“You are quite right, of course, Zorlu Bey. Is it possible that you'd perform this service for myself at all?”

“Pasha, I am desolated to inform you that I cannot see how I can accept. As principal aide to his excellency, the continued business of the embassy in his absence must be my main concern. I do hope you will understand.”

And the paltry affairs of a passing lord were not of importance.

Decisions were being rushed on him and he didn't like it—but there was no alternative.

“This places me in a difficult situation, Zorlu Bey. It forces me to decide whether or not to—”

“Whether … to tell me why you are really here.”

He paused. The man was both intelligent and penetrating—too much so?

“Why should I trust you, Zorlu?”

“Because my father would honour you for it.”

“Your father?”

“Unhappily now deceased, lord. He admired the nobility above all things and would greatly wish I could be judged worthy of the confidences of an earl.”

“Go on.”

“He was a merchant factor from Oldham in Lancashire, who, sent as agent here, fell in love with a Persian slave-girl. I have been three times to England to see his family and to London as well. It may be truly said that I … love your country.”

It was an admission that could have him decapitated or worse—but it explained his excellent English, his patience with a feckless noble and his continued loyalty to an ambassador who had fled his duty.

Renzi made up his mind that he would trust the man—quite literally—with his life.

Trying not to be overawed by the sheer scale of the palace, surrounded by walls miles long, Lord Farndon was ushered into a vast courtyard, shaded by trees and with pleasant paths leading through landscaped grasslands to groups of buildings.

“The first courtyard,” murmured Zorlu.

It was lined with soldiers in turbans of different kinds and flamboyant uniforms of exotic colours, each with an ornamented hewing knife thrust into a gold-threaded sash. Their eyes followed the visitors, arrogant and cruel.