Renzi saw that the tower had some useful features. It was for the sole use of the sultan and therefore entrance was only from the harem. At the top there was a grilled observation port for Selim’s viewing pleasure and in its lower part the “Golden Window,” a means of secretly listening to the deliberations of the grand vizier’s Divan, the Imperial Council, which was adjacent.
There was a sense of order and normality; Jago had not been flustered at being spirited away into these singular surroundings, and the basics of a household were in place.
“A bath, and then a shave,” he decided.
“Certainly, m’ lord.”
Ablutions completed, and wearing a fresh-smelling kaftan, Renzi explored their little world. The viewing port on his floor allowed a fine sight of the Gate of Felicity and the area in front of the Imperial Council Hall, as well as providing a lookout over the whole city.
The mechanics of supporting the little group were simple. At set times Jago, with his Turkish interpreter, would meet one of the eunuchs at the ground floor and their needs would be explained. These, with meals and fresh water, would appear and be carried up by Golding and the others and routine would be observed.
The Lord Farndon would not want for comforts, it seemed.
That night Renzi lay in an opulent fur-spread bed in his “tent” and tried to make sense of events.
The French were about to become effective rulers. Did he not then have a duty to remain and see what happened? Yet there was little point if he could not report and he had no way to communicate with the outside world.
His central mission was to bring about the ejection of the French from their position of influence. Nothing else mattered.
He forced his mind to an icy calm.
The key to it all was Selim. Only he had the authority to bring it about. But he had chosen to go with the French. They offered the only security against the Russians and English, had armies in the Balkans that could be called upon, and since the Nile, Bonaparte had gone out of his way to woo him, above all with military advisers who had done much to reform the Turkish Army.
The French were identified now with national security and the new world order. The sultan would be a fool to turn his back on them.
Renzi’s thoughts darkened as he considered every alternative, irrespective of honour or morality. It chilled him for he found his logic hardening into a conclusion that was as inexorable as it was cold-blooded.
If Selim was leading Turkey into this alliance, he had to be stopped, removed from the equation.
A Russian invasion would do it, but there was little chance of that in the near future. The alternative was appalling to contemplate. Assassination. Presumably by himself.
There was excellent opportunity, for they always met alone and he was trusted above most. It wouldn’t be difficult.
Renzi’s very being was revolted at the treachery but his merciless logic asked if he had a more effective answer.
He didn’t. The consequences he must put aside: it would probably end with his unpleasant demise-better he took a pistol to himself first.
An image of Cecilia thrust itself unbearably into his mind. All he had to do was to wait it out and he would eventually be back in her arms in the opulence of Eskdale Hall and …
He crushed the thought and focused on the present. How much did he believe in his mission? An assassination would achieve its object-there would be no alliance, no road to India and empire for Bonaparte. Almost certainly an immeasurable adversity to his country would have been forestalled and it was in his power to do it.
It was not too late-for if he drew back, didn’t go through with it, no one would ever know.
But he would have to live with the failure for the rest of his life.
At some time in the early hours another possibility emerged. A slender, much less certain alternative, but it would mean Selim need not die.
He had heard the sultan himself admit he had adversaries among those who opposed reform. Was there any chance of an uprising? A revolution of sorts that would strip Selim of his powers, go against his friends the French?
He had no idea, and in any case, the thought of his playing a part in something like that was laughable.
Or was it?
A tiny shoot of a stratagem sprang into existence. Yes, it might be possible.
He knew nothing of the factions that seethed in the Ottoman capital-but Zorlu did.
This was now at a different plane of danger entirely. If any suspected what he was plotting it would be a cruel and barbarous death in prospect. He would be putting his life and cause into the hands of one man.
Zorlu had professed a love of England, but it was not his native land. Would he give his support to a rising against his sovereign lord, Sultan Selim? Quite apart from the personal danger, would he see the cause as more important than the inevitable anarchy and bloodshed? It was asking a lot of the man, and if Renzi had misjudged him it would be all over for himself.
Yet if he didn’t attempt to win over Zorlu, he must fall back on the first sanction.
In the morning came news. The Russians, barred from the Dardanelles, had hit on an ingenious solution. They in turn were blockading the same strait to Turkish shipping, cutting off Constantinople from the outer world and its trade, at a stroke touching the lives of every inhabitant in the land.
As it began to bite, there would be unrest and ugly scenes: the scenario any zealous anarchist could wish for. Renzi had to make his move soon.
“Zorlu. A word, if I may?”
He started by sorrowing for the destiny of Turkey at the hands of France, the inevitable taking over of every position of power: if Bonaparte were to retain his longed-for route to glory, he would not leave anything to chance in this priceless strategic asset. The fate of the people, their traditions, their freedom.
Carefully he brought the subject around to Selim, a sultan who had probably made the wrong decision and very shortly would go ahead with it-if he was not stopped.
Zorlu listened without comment.
Renzi then went on innocently to enquire if there was any likelihood that he would be overthrown by a faction, say, one opposed to reform.
“Lord, let me tell you something of the situation, remembering that false-hearted viziers never show their true fidelity until circumstances dictate.”
“I understand, Zorlu. Please go on.”
“On the one hand we have those who crave reform and entry to the modern world, and are Sultan Selim’s most ardent followers. Chief of these, you may say, is the grand vizier, Ibrahim Hilmi Pasha, and the grand mufti, Haji Samatar, is loud in his support. There are others, but these two are the ones he may count upon.
“In those against his reforms we may especially note the Janissaries, who have ancient privileges and much power, but they are held in check by the rising new army trained by the French, the Nizam-i Cedid, which has modern weapons and discipline and is hated by them.”
“So there’s no central figure who might be considered a focus for the discontented?”
“Lord, that is difficult to say. No man dare tell the world he stands against the sultan, but I have heard the leader of the Ulema, Mehmed Ataullah, utter words unbecoming.”
“The Ulema?”
“The highest body of Muslim legal scholars, making him a powerful man.”
“So no one of stature in the Army, say?”
“There are many, but none openly declared to be in opposition. A personage of note, however, and a sly, treacherous fox, is the deputy grand vizier, one Kose Musa, who I’m certain harbours secret desires of his own.”
“Then, as far as you know, there are none actively plotting against Sultan Selim?”
“They dare not move while the forces are balanced so.”
“Is there not a crown prince of sorts they may push forward to replace Selim?”
“If you mean Prince Mustafa, although he stands to inherit the Osman Sultanate, they will have a weak enough reed to rest their hopes on-he has since birth been reared and confined within the harem, dissipating his life in pleasures of the flesh. It is said he has never once set foot outside the palace.”