Pasha (28 page)

They must mean the frigate that had taken off the ambassador just before he'd arrived. But why would it come back, knowing it would inflame the population? Taking vengeance was nonsense, of course: no captain would be mad enough to think
to restore honour by beginning a shooting war against an ally.

“It'll settle down.” Renzi tried to sound confident but he was aware that only a single gate separated them from a gathering mob.

They continued eating but the unrest grew louder, more strident.

“I don't like it, my lord,” Zorlu muttered. “They're—”

At the outside door there was a fierce knocking.

A frightened Miller answered but was pushed aside roughly by a Janissary. The man glowered, then pointed at Renzi, unmistakably ordering him outside.

Zorlu got up, protesting. A scimitar hissed out, and he stopped in his tracks.

“Stay, Zorlu Bey. I'll be back when—”

The Janissary shouted at him, gesturing angrily.

In the outer darkness Renzi could see at least a hundred of the elaborately plumed soldiers, the steely gleam of their weapons caught in the moonlight.

At an ill-tempered command he was jostled into the centre of the group, which closed around him and stepped off quickly.

Out of the courtyard, then on to the inner second one, advancing right across to a long domed and arched edifice, shadowed, but in parts lit luridly by torches. Waiting for him was a smaller party of men in tall white hats and gold-edged robes. He was handed over: his wrists were bound and a hood placed over his head. Then he was marched away.

After a succession of turns they finally came to a halt. Renzi heard a door being unlocked and he was pushed inside. His hands were untied and his hood removed. The door crashed shut, leaving him alone in a room lit only by a small lamp on a side table. There was a low, plain bed and a form of dresser with a water-jug.

He sat on the bed and calmed his racing heart. He was a hated Englishman of the tribe that was bringing their ship against the capital. It could all be over quickly when the frigate captain came
to his senses and left … or just as easily the crowd could bawl for his head as a token of defiance.

In the deathly quiet he tried to think. Would he ever see dear Cecilia again? He crushed the thought.

The door suddenly rattled and a tall dark man in the same white robes he'd seen before stepped in. He bowed without a word, then beckoned Renzi to follow.

They passed down a narrow passage into a small room, richly ornamented with intricate gilded fretwork.

Sultan Selim rose from a divan. He was alone.

“You will appreciate, my dear Fahn'ton Pasha, that this is for your own protection.”

With a courtly bow, Renzi murmured an acknowledgement and added, “My household, Sire?”

“They will be protected, never fear. Do you know why you are here?”

“Seigneur, I heard an English warship lies close.”

“Not one. Many! There is a fleet of great ships now at anchor by the Princes Islands, not eight miles from us here. Some with three lines of guns, many with two. And others.”

It took Renzi's breath away. This was no stray frigate—with first-rate battleships it was a squadron of a size equipped to engage in a fleet action. What in Hades was a major asset like this, so sorely needed out on the Atlantic blockade, doing here?

There was no sense in any of it and he tried to blink away his confusion.

“What do you think they mean by it, Fahn'ton Pasha,” Selim said quietly, “that they so terrify my people by their presence?”

“I—I cannot think it has any meaning to me, not a military man, sir.” What was Whitehall contemplating—to reduce French influence by a flourish, by force? If so, it was madness!

“Then I must put my own construction upon it. I believe you
English wish me to gaze upon your might that I may stop my ears to the French whispering. That you desire me to follow your path, not theirs. Am I right?”

“This I cannot possibly answer, sir.”

“I understand.” He looked away, his expression unreadable.

After a few moments the sultan said softly, “All Constantinople now believes you to be taken, to have disappeared into the Topkapi Palace, as so many have done, never to be seen again. And they will approve. But I can see how it may be to our mutual advantage.

“You are safe here. But in return you will give me your counsel, your opinions, which I greatly value.”

“If you wish it, Sire.”

“And perhaps there will be time for you to read to me from your poetry, to plumb its depths of meaning for me.”

Renzi felt a jet of sympathy for the man: with the seething currents of plotting and power struggles all about him, was he groping for something like friendship?

“It will be my honour.”

“Do advise me now, my friend. What do the English want? The people are frantic—I must tell them something.”

Renzi concentrated savagely. The fleet commander would have his orders; any assessment he gave had a chance of frustrating their intent. Yet he had to come up with some sage counsel that would satisfy or he was finished.

Damn to hell the unknown politicals who had dreamed up whatever hare-brained scheme this was, without either telling him or giving his mission a chance to succeed, as it was certainly beginning to.

“Sire, the character of an Englishman is one who cherishes fair play above all else. There will be no precipitate falling upon you, no invasion, no firing on your great city, not until a formal note is communicated to you specifying any grievance.”

Any admiral would be committing professional suicide to open fire without the due formalities recognised by civilised nations.

“Therefore, Sire, my advice is to wait calmly for the demand and then, knowing what is asked, let enlightened diplomacy relieve the situation. Meanwhile, your people are in no danger and must wait patiently, as we are all obliged to do.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Quite certain, sir.”

“I was not wrong. Your counsel is most wise, Fahn'ton Pasha.”

He hesitated, then asked, “Therefore it would be prudent of me to have you aware of other advice given, that you might be in a position to comment upon it.”

Did he mean … ?

“Shortly I will be in audience with General Sébastiani who will advise me on the situation. I desire you shall hear him.”

“Sir! How can I—”

“No one knows your exact whereabouts here. This must remain so. Nevertheless I conceive that there is a way for you to be able to overhear what passes between us. I shall meet him in the Mabeyn, a hall that is the most privileged and secure of my receiving chambers. It is at the edge of my harem, and when one of my wives is consumed with curiosity by a guest she is enabled to satisfy herself by passing up a secret staircase and hearing all that goes on from behind a privy screen. This you shall do.”

Selim clapped his hands. The tall dark man entered, bowing with hands widespread.

“This is Mahmut. He is chief of the eunuchs and I trust him more than any, for he is mute. He cannot speak to betray my secrets. He will conduct you by the secret stairway when there is need of you.”

Renzi could hardly believe his good fortune. To listen in on the machinations of Sébastiani was a priceless boon, and all unknown to the French.

“It is only fair to tell you, Fahn'ton Pasha, that if you are discovered in this place, by the laws of the sultanate your life is forfeit. Even I will not be able to save you. Shall you proceed?”

With that opportunity? Of course!

“For the sake of our friendship, Sire, I will.”

Mahmut appeared noiselessly and they left the cell. The beautiful arabesque corridor stretched away in the soft illumination of elaborate sconces but just a few paces further on they came to a discreet door, which Mahmut opened.

By the light of a small taper Renzi could see steps leading down. At the bottom they walked along for a space and, after a sharp turn, climbed up again.

Ahead was a patterning of light from a fretwork panelling.

Through its slits and holes Renzi found himself looking into a room that gleamed with the splendour of gold, enamel and intricate ornamenting that had no equal in Paris or London.

Sprawled in an elaborately carved chair and looking moodily at the scarlet divan under a gold-tasselled canopy, Sébastiani was in full dress uniform and decorations.

The space held an elusive, eastern fragrance, and Renzi remembered that he was to all intents and purposes in the harem of the sultan.

He pressed forward in his eagerness to see but Mahmut drew him back with patient gestures, away from the light that might give away his presence.

In rising excitement he peered at the officer, careful to stay in the darkness. Young, energetic and formidably intelligent, this was the man he must beat.

He studied him intently. Was he imagining it or was he trying to conceal nervousness—a lack of confidence perhaps?

If so, there could be only one reason. Nelson's long shadow
was reaching out and touching him—the legend of invincibility at sea that the Royal Navy had won for itself was now a confronting reality. If Selim was swayed by its appearance he could well be handed over, a prisoner of the English, within the day.

Renzi's eyes glowed. This was working better than he'd hoped. If only he knew the unknown admiral's orders … Still, their massive presence might be all that would be required for him to turn the tables on the French.

There was movement outside and Sébastiani shot to his feet with a broad smile.

“Why, General, you are already here, I see,” Selim said, accepting Sébastiani's ostentatious court bow with an airy flourish of his hands.

“I believed my Turkish seigneur would be appreciative of my military counsel at this grave time.”

“Very well, General. The English are here for a purpose. What is your advice?”

“Sire, we know full well why they're here.”

“Oh?”

“It is simple,” he began smoothly. “They are allied to the Russians. Tsar Alexander is ambitious and, as we have so recently seen, expands his empire into Turkish lands, which is scandalous. If you were the King of England would you rather favour this European monarch with friends, or will it be an Oriental sultan with none?”

“General, it is a mighty fleet, that of the ever-victorious Nelson himself. We cannot possibly prevail over them.”

“We cannot know this, Sire. My counsel from the heart to you, at this time of the greatest peril, is to delay. Obstruct and procrastinate until the situation is known. Only then can plans and decisions be made. It is the wisest course.”

“Very well. I thank you for your sagacious words and bid you goodnight.”

Renzi was taken back to his cell.

The Frenchman was good—very good. The advice to delay was what he would have given in the circumstances, and talk of the Russians was a neat ploy even if completely fallacious. The British would never take sides one against the other, not for any noble reason but because the risk of backing the wrong horse was too great when no commitment was being demanded.

It was disturbing that Selim did not visit afterwards. Not that he had anything to say: only when the true reason for the fleet's presence was known would it be possible to bring to bear rational deliberation.

He was awake at break of day. If there was to be a note of demands it would be delivered promptly. He could only wait.

The morning wore on in hours of tedium.

The situation was unreadable: with the fleet at anchor only eight miles away, there could be no difficulty in getting a message ashore under flag of truce. What was holding them up?

In a fever of impatience he waited. Mid-morning a silent Mahmut arrived to take him to the eyrie. Renzi looked on as Sébastiani was brought in.

“General. We have our demands.”

“You will delay, Seigneur, of course.”

“We have done so. Our water guard refused to recognise the boat's flag of truce. It was put ashore by a trick, however.”

“May I know its contents, sir?”

“My dragoman will read it to us both.”

So that Renzi could know it, too. In his hiding-place he smiled his appreciation.

A portly man was ushered in. Selim handed him the paper.

“Ah, from the English Admiral Duckworth to the Reis-ül Kuttab.”

“Our foreign minister, as you'll remember, General.”

“Yes, Sire. And … ?”

Even in the courtly French the demand was baldly stated and brief.

The British viewed the growing influence of the French at the Sublime Porte as intolerable to their existing treaty of alliance. It was demanded that the French agitator Sébastiani and his associates be yielded up under pain of further action.

Sébastiani gave a superior smile, as if throwing off a triviality. Renzi was forced to admire his control and waited with interest for his reaction.

“I have to confess I'm not certain I'm flattered, Sire.”

“Why so, General?”

“This great fleet—to lay hands on my person? I rather think not. It is to a larger purpose—that of removing the only one standing in the way of dismantling your defences against their Russian allies. And I'm determined that you shall not be left at their mercy.”

“How can you say this, sir?”

“Sire, when before I said you had no friends, this may be true in the formal sense. Yet even without an alliance, the august Emperor Napoleon wishes me to do all in my power to assist you, and has empowered me to offer the resources of the empire to resist this insult and safeguard your throne. I will do so.”

“Against the fleet at our gates this very hour?”

“It can be done.”

“Forgive me, General, I cannot see how.”

“Sire, let me bring to your recollection the unbroken string of victories our illustrious emperor has won on the continent of Europe against the most dreadful of foes. The contemptible English successes pale against our laurels. True, they have prevailed in several battles out at sea, but who cares what happens on waters distant from the homeland?”