Zorlu looked at Renzi intently, his eyes troubled. “Fahn’ton Pasha, why are you asking me these things?”
“Zorlu, please bear with me. I have one final question: in your opinion, if the disaffected saw a chance to rise up by reason of a favourable external circumstance, would they at all?”
“I will tell you directly. There is much hatred of the sultan’s reforms and the situation is volatile. But it will never happen while the grand vizier reigns and the Nizam-i Cedid remains loyal, as it most assuredly will.”
Renzi had his answer. There would be no revolt. That left only one course and he must do it. He knew of no other who would.
It had to be the knife. His heart cringed at the vision of his assassin’s blade ending the existence of one who had befriended and trusted him, but there was no other way. Possibly, if it happened at night in his third-floor apartment, he could open the grilled window wide and thrust the body through. Later it would be found at the base of the tower.
He was checked in his thoughts. Where was the morality, the pity in him? How could he contemplate cold-blooded murder so dispassionately?
It was his logic. The merciless outworking of that part of him that had always kept him aloof from the world and its perplexities.
Securing a knife was no problem. He extravagantly admired a curved, ornamented dagger worn by one of the eunuchs and offered to buy it as a souvenir to take back to England. A working weapon for those entrusted with guarding the harem, its exotically fashioned hilt was in complete contrast to the lightly blued wicked blade.
He concealed it behind a tent’s draperies and prepared himself. There was no knowing when Selim would appear so he put it about that he valued his privacy and wished to be left alone.
The blockade was taking its toll and there were noisy disturbances out on the streets. Renzi gave a half-smile-it was turning into a naval war after all. The French had been wrong about that but could do nothing to counter it and therefore Selim had much to concern himself with.
When his supper was brought, he heard word had come from Roumelia, at the Wallachia border along the Danube. The Russians were massing. Orders were given, and the grand vizier left with his best troops to confront them.
The decision was also made that the Russian blockade had to be broken. The Turkish Navy was concentrated together in a battle squadron and sailed to meet the Russians.
This was now a different matter. The Navy was obligated to Selim for his reforms, which had brought it into the modern world, and fiercely loyal-but now the entire fleet was sailing south and was out of reach.
With the grand vizier leaving for Roumelia, Selim had few supporters. However, he still had the loyalty of the Nizam-i Cedid, which safely outnumbered even the Janissaries and all of the others in Constantinople.
But they were quartered in Levend Chiftlik, across the water, in recognition of their controversial presence.
The duplicitous deputy grand vizier, Musa, had assumed plenary powers and was now Selim’s prime minister, with the leader of the Ulema, Ataullah, as his right-hand man.
Was it time to consider his other course? Renzi could see there would be no better moment to make his move to spark a revolt.
But if he went this way and Zorlu or others turned on him, the other plan would be made impossible and Selim would go on to make the fatal alliance.
One way was certain; this other had the potential to fail.
He wrestled with the elements and decided it would not be the assassin’s knife.
Fighting down the protests from his logical self that he was shying away from the act, he weighed his chances.
Zorlu was the only one who could put him into contact with the players. If he backed him, with his spark of a scheme, there was a chance he could pull off his revolt and Selim’s life would not be forfeit.
But if Zorlu turned against him, Renzi would be forced to use his knife on him then and there to preserve the first sanction.
In the deathly quiet of the deserted floor, draped all about with Oriental silks and tassels, Renzi set out his plan to Zorlu, who listened politely, his features drawn.
Then he spoke slowly, bleakly. “Lord-I understand more than you can know. It must be done. What should I do?”
Relief flooded Renzi.
It was quickly followed by warmth towards one who was wrestling his demons without complaint and who was about to be placed in deadly danger as he approached the most powerful men in the caliphate with a plot against the sultan.
“Our object is to place so much pressure on Selim that he dare not go ahead with the alliance. The haters of reform are our target but they will not move until they feel secure. I have a plan that meets this but requires I speak to them directly. Can you … ?”
This was a turning point: once they went ahead the future was unknown.
Not only was Zorlu in mortal peril but by giving up the secret of their existence in the tower, Renzi, Jago and all of the others would be at their mercy.
“Fahn’ton Pasha, it is done.”
“When?”
“This very night. It has caused great interest among Selim’s opponents and they desire you should lay your plans before them at the earliest possible time.”
Renzi’s heart skipped a beat. There was no stopping the juggernaut now.
“Zorlu Bey, I can’t tell you how much I admire your courage and fidelity. I’ve a notion you risked much?”
He gave a tiny smile. “Lord, if only to reveal to you whom we march with, my fate, if it’s deemed we’re charlatans, is to be sewn into a sack with a dozen rats and dropped into the Bosporus.”
“I see.”
“For you, Lord, your head will decorate the Yedikule for a period not less than thirty days and nights.”
“Then we had better be sure of our little intrigue. What do you think of this?”
It was carefully arranged. There would be no face-to-face meeting. Instead they would make use of the sultan’s Golden Window. The conspirators would meet as they were entitled to in the Imperial Council Hall. Renzi would be on the other side and speak through the grille, Zorlu translating.
It did not escape Renzi that, while the Divan could claim complete innocence on their side, his actions were those of a spy. All it needed was for a eunuch to enter from the harem and it would be the end for him.
The grille was high, but a peculiar-shaped piece of furniture stood opposite that was clearly used as the sultan’s clandestine surveillance platform. Fortunately it could take the two of them so Renzi and Zorlu gingerly climbed up.
Renzi peered in: the Imperial Council Hall was lit by a central lamp and beautifully figured in gold and blue, a crimson velvet bench against the walls.
But there was no sign of life.
“Do I address anyone within?” he asked. Zorlu relayed his question.
Instantly there was a hard, guttural response from close to the grille, out of their range of vision.
“There will be no discussion of names,” Zorlu said neutrally.
Muttering, then a sharp question:
“The essence of your offer, and quickly.”
“Tell them … tell them this.”
He was an English scholar, treasuring the old ways and valuing those traditions handed down from the past, polished by the ages. Here in Constantinople, where he’d come to discover relics of history, he had been dismayed to find Sultan Selim so quick to bring in modern, foreign fashions to displace the old and wished to assist those who cherished their past.
It brought another curt growl.
“The offer?”
Putting as much feeling into it as he could, Renzi went on to make plain his sympathy for those wishing to stand up for their traditions but understandably reluctant for fear that Selim would quickly call in his French friends and their overwhelming armies from Dalmatia.
The answering grunt was tinged with impatience. Then came a curt demand for the name of the English scholar they were addressing.