Pasha (37 page)

“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
yamak
s 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.

Zorlu wiped his brow. “We're to shut and lock our doors from now on. No one to go in or out. With Prince Mustafa unaccounted for, it's not safe to be out.”

Renzi let out a shuddering sigh. They were trusted; there would be no searches.

Then he checked himself. How did the Janissaries know there was an Englishman in the tower?

The answer came swiftly: they must be the conspirators' men, ensuring that Mustafa would not be found.

Early in the morning Renzi was woken by the sound of a crowd. It was coming from the direction of the vast open space of the Meydani beyond, once the hippodrome of the Byzantines. Somewhere there a restless multitude was gathering in the early-morning light.

They had to have come with some purpose: the Janissaries in firm control of the Topkapi Palace, they had no hope of storming it. Were they hoping to gain concessions from the sultan to tone down his reforms?

While Renzi watched from above, a delegation was allowed into the courtyard, closely escorted. They advanced to the area in front of the Imperial Council Hall—perfectly placed directly beneath his gaze.

Vizier Musa emerged from the Divan and met them, accepting a scroll. They were then escorted away.

A little later there was a flurry of activity at the Gate of Felicity, leading from the sultan's courtyard. It was Selim—in gorgeous raiment that shimmered as he processed, moving directly into the Imperial Council Hall to meet his Divan.

Inside the splendid room the mood was tense and fractious.

“Sire, this petition is outrageous. It demands you disband the Nizam-i Cedid!”

“Vizier Mehmet, your views are well known,” Selim said uncomfortably, his face troubled. “What I need to decide at this moment is how to proceed without antagonising them further.”

Musa kept mute, watching each of the ministers reveal themselves. Already some were temporising, unwilling to be seen on the wrong side if things went against the sultan. For once time was in his favour—the longer Selim dithered, the uglier the crowd would get.

“Then, Great One, command the Nizam-i Cedid to come here. They'll make short work of the rabble and restore your authority to its full respect without delay.”

Selim hesitated. “It does seem the time to make a firm gesture, I'll admit. Perhaps I will send them orders.”

“Sire, that would, surely, be to your eternal regret,” Ataullah
Efendi snapped immediately. As the highest legal scholar of Islam in the land, he had to be heard.

“Oh?”

“This I declare unto you. There will be a bloodbath—the soldiery will be resisted and the population will turn on them. You will be known for ever more as the Ottoman sultan who took a sword to his own people.”

Tight-faced, Shakir Efendi grated, “He needs to make a move of firmness and strength before it gets out of hand—then you'll see a bloodbath, take my word on it.”

Musa let them take their positions, allowing the venomous debate to ebb and flow without conclusion, then he spoke. “Excellency, there is another solution.”

It brought quiet and a wary attention.

“Grand Vizier, I'd be gratified to hear it.”

“It is insupportable that a barbarous crowd issues demands to their sultan. Yet you are at the moment in a position of weakness and this is an act of extortion. Lie to them that you will disband the foreign-trained army—having got what they want they will disperse without harm to anyone. Afterwards, in your own time, you may reverse the decree.”

“Ah! It is offensive to our morals to break our word but it does have the merit of immediate effect.”

“Sire!” exploded Shakir. “That robs you of your last defences—don't listen! You'll have none to stand at your side against—”

“Shakir Efendi, this is only a temporary shift. When things are calmer I will rescind my words.”

“The crowd is swelling. The common people are joined by traitorous Janissaries. This is madness, Sire! We should—”

“Shakir,” Musa said slyly, “are you questioning your sultan?”

There could be no reply.

It was done.

Musa lifted his eyes to Heaven and murmured a prayer, then serenely addressed Sultan Selim: “Sire, I go now to try to speak to the crowd, tell them of your magnanimous decision. In peril of my life, I do so in the knowledge that it is my sacred duty to my liege khan.”

“Your courage and loyalty are a lesson to us all, Köse Musa. Go with the blessings of Allah.”

“I, the leader of the Ulema, will not stand by in the hour of the caliphate's need,” intoned Ataullah. “Come, Vizier Musa, let us face what test Allah is bringing us and speak to the congregation together.”

They left in great dignity.

Afterwards the sultan was besieged by frightened ministers who had spoken out for him. “Sire, we're in great peril—the masses may not disband. I beg you, send for the—”

“We are in the hands of Allah the Merciful,” Selim said weakly. “I go now to my harem.”

“Sire—Sire! We, your faithful servants—do not leave us alone with our enemies!”

The sultan stopped, troubled. “Very well. Shakir, Mehmet—you others. You may accompany me into sanctuary.”

“They're going to speak to the crowd,” Zorlu murmured to Renzi, watching the two turbaned heads sweep off towards the outer gates. “That's Köse Musa and with him Ataullah Efendi. It's plain to me what they'll do now.”

“Stir the people up, not pacify them.”

“Just so, my lord.”

Their attention was distracted: all over the palace, ornamental gates that had not moved for centuries ground shut and detachments of Janissaries took up lines in the first courtyard, their scimitars glittering in the morning sunlight.

“Will it be effective, do you think?”

“I do not know what was decided below us, but the plotters need to bring as much pressure on the sultan as they can muster to overcome his supreme will in the matter of reforms. We shall see.”

After an hour, a dangerous roar rose up.

The two returned later, and quickly disappeared into the Imperial Council Hall.

“There's something afoot,” Renzi murmured.

The uproar and clamour increased, a horde now at the gates of the Topkapi Palace itself, spreading as it grew. From their midst burst a horseman with a huge red triangular banner. He made for the Imperial Gate, which seemed to open of its own accord, raced through and into the courtyard.

“To ride in a palace courtyard is forbidden to all but the sultan himself,” Zorlu murmured.

The Janissaries held their ground and the horse came to a stop, gyrating nervously while the rider argued with an officer.

“Lord, I do believe this is a species of demand on the sultan. I beg we may go to a lower floor that I might listen.”

They ran down the stone stairs to Jago's realm. The staff were sitting despondently, knowing not a thing of what was going on, for the only window was out of reach high on the wall.

“We need to hear what's going on, Jago,” Renzi puffed. “Do drag up some of this furniture to make a lookout through the window.”

“Very good, m' lord.”

Upended beds, dressers, tables, were all brought to bear.

Renzi climbed up and peered out cautiously. Their viewpoint was well placed, overlooking the space of ground between the Imperial Council Hall and the Gate of Felicity and within earshot. Zorlu took position next to him.

The horseman had been let through the Janissary lines and
now galloped recklessly up to the Imperial Council Hall. Reining in, he shouted—hectoring, demanding.

“He says he comes from the people, who have lost patience with the godless foreign deviations from the true faith, who see Sultan Selim led astray by false advisers, and demand that these be handed over to them for justice.”

Zorlu turned to Renzi, disturbed. “Lord, it seems the crowd feels its power. The French are finished now, you may be certain, but they want more—to seek revenge on those who supported Selim's reforms. The sultan would be very unwise to agree to this.”

With a defiant gesture, the horseman bellowed a final threat and, wheeling about, raced back to the outer gate.

“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 Ağa 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.”