Pasha (38 page)

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
Zindīqs,
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!”

“You are impertinent and treasonable. Go back to your barracks!”

“Sire, you force us to—”

“You haven't considered this, Kabakji Bey. Without me there is no sultan, the caliphate goes unruled. The crown prince has disappeared and without him you have no successor. You cannot go further.”

The man drew himself up impressively and flung out an arm. It pointed directly to the tower and held.

Renzi pulled back from the window instinctively.

“He wants us to show Prince Mustafa,” Zorlu hissed.

“No!”

“We must.”

“I—I can't do this to Selim!”

Zorlu pushed past, throwing the grille window wide and thrust Mustafa up to it.

There was an instant roar of recognition and a chant began: “Sultan Mustafa Han! Sultan Mustafa Han!”

Drums rolled and volleyed, and wild shouts of jubilation echoed up.

Renzi went reluctantly to the window to see the entire mass in
ecstatic gyrating, waving scimitars—and a single lonely figure. In his rich robes and turban, Sultan Selim gazed up, and even over the distance his look, with its terrible accusation of betrayal, pierced Renzi to his soul.

Slowly, Selim turned about and walked back into his harem.

“So, you have your triumph, Köse Musa,” Ataullah said. “But here's something that'll give you pause.”

“Now what can that be, I wonder?” Musa said comfortably, sipping his sherbet.

“Only that the Nizam-i Cedid Army in Edirne has just learned of the rising and is marching back to restore Selim to his powers.”

Musa put down his goblet. “That is not what I wanted to hear.”

“There's every chance they'll do it, with their new weapons and numbers.”

“They have to be stopped.”

“There is only one way.”

“If you are saying …”

“I am, Vizier Musa. It's the only sure cure.”

“Who will do it?”

“That's your business, is it not?” Ataullah answered silkily.

Renzi heard them. This time muted, subdued. A jingling of accoutrements, the heavy tramp of many boots.

He'd expected them to come. It was logical. An inevitable outcome of the course they had taken.

Dully he watched from the window as the last act began.

“Eunuch Mahmut! Hear me! Deliver up to us the person of Selim Osman, by strict order of the Sultan Mustafa.”

After an interval it was repeated.

“If we must enter, there will be none spared. This is our final word.”

Selim came to the gates, flanked by eunuchs, Pakize clutching him, imploring, tearful.

He saw the bared blades and tried to break free. Two men, stripped to the waist and with scimitars at the ready, darted forward but Pakize threw herself in front of her master. It didn't stop them—the first swing of the sword laid open her arm and, thrusting aside her shrieking form, Selim was cut down in a merciless hacking until his lifeless body lay still.

Renzi slumped back, stricken by what he'd brought about.

The hunt for the last loyal supporters of Selim went on throughout the city and long into the night.

“We're safest here,” Renzi told Jago, and his terrified household. He could not admit that, in view of his central part in the uprising, he was more likely to be hailed a hero by the “winning side” than anything. He dreaded the prospect and, just as soon as he could, he would leave this beautiful and terrible place.

Sleep would not come. On the one hand there were the brutal images seared on his memory—that look of Selim's would haunt him to the end of his days.

But on the other hand he could go back to London and rightly claim that, while the English had been humiliated and banished, he had brought about the same thing for the French. Summarily ejected and identified so thoroughly with the wrong side, they would never be a threat again.

His achievement—at such cost to others—was no less than the saving of empire and the thwarting of Napoleon Bonaparte.

In the early morning a platoon of moustachioed Janissaries came for him. When Zorlu tried to intervene, he was thrown aside.

Renzi was taken to a rough, unsprung carriage, which ground off, out of the courtyard, through the Imperial Gate and into the
city. At that hour the streets were deserted and the noise of their passing echoed sharply off the buildings.

He had no idea what was going on and, without Zorlu, could not find out. He tried to remain calm.

After an interminable journey along grey-glistening sea-walls they took a sharp turn inland.

Through the side window Renzi caught a glimpse of a fortress with many towers, which for some reason meant something to him. Then he had it: in his childhood he'd been taken by an illustrated account of old Constantinople. This was the famed Golden Gate, the entry point to the fabled city of the Byzantine emperors, its massive gates then gilded, with four bronze elephants at guard.

Now dour and oppressive, it loomed over him as the gates swung open and they continued on to the shadowed interior.

He was handed over without ceremony and hustled up stone steps to a guarded cell in one of the ancient towers. He was pushed in, the door crashing to behind.

Human stench wafted over him. There was a low bed on either side of the gloomy room, rushes on the floor, a single high, barred window.

A voice behind startled him. He swung around. It was Sébastiani, his arms folded and a cynical smile playing.

“Well, well. Our English lord. How the mighty have fallen.”

Renzi was instantly on guard. So the French were taken too.

How much did Sébastiani know? If his character as an amiable noble fool was penetrated, his worth to Congalton in the future—should ever he get out of here—would be little or nothing.

“These Ottoman dolts, they have no conception how to treat their guests,” Renzi said peevishly. “And what all this means is beyond me. Obviously there's been some mistake.”

“Oh? If you're Selim's friend, it explains everything, don't you think?”

“We got along together well, I admit. A talented writer, composer—he and I rather enjoyed our few visits.”

“He did speak well of you, I remember. But do tell, when your fleet came you disappeared from mortal ken. We assumed you had been an unfortunate victim of the understandable loathing of the English at the time. Where did you go?”

“Ha!” Renzi spat. “Those accursed Janissaries. They locked me up in some prison, said it was Selim's orders and that it was for my own protection. I was outraged! I, a noble lord, sitting for days in a cell, like a common felon.”

“It must have been a harrowing experience for you, milord,” Sébastiani soothed, but with a mischievous smile.

“Just so. I had no idea what was going on, no one to talk to and—”

“I do understand. So that is why you took against His Sacred Majesty and warmed to the idea of a revolt.”

Renzi froze. “Why do you say that, General?”

“Why? I do have it as a fact that it was you hid the Prince Mustafa, a necessary pre-condition for any rising.”

“Well, I …”

“A cynic might go on to observe that, for the sacred goal of frustrating us in our legitimate relations with the Sublime Porte, a devious plot might well have been conceived by a high-placed Englishman to overthrow the friends of the French. Yes?”

Renzi allowed a look of astonishment to be quickly replaced by one of gratification. “You really think I could do something like that, General? That's very kind in you to say. However, I'm embarrassed to admit the concealing was from quite another motive.

“You've no idea how expensive travel is in Oriental lands. Simple daily comforts come at extraordinary prices and, to be truthful about it, the delay while you warriors sorted things
out between you has been ruinous to my purse. So, when an offer was made by the rebels to … Well, it was difficult to refuse gold in hand, and with Selim having treated me like that …”

“Quite so. And for your efforts you are now rewarded with this.”

“It's disgraceful! I can only think there's been some confusion and that when the new sultan discovers what has happened to a noble of England he'll be sorely angry.”