Fahn’ton Pasha was a noble lord of England, a peer of the realm and of the court of the legendary King of England; his name and word were respected throughout the kingdom. He was offering that should there be a rising, he alone could guarantee that there would be no interference from the French.
There was a disbelieving snort.
How?
Well, the armies were in Dalmatia. Normally troops were moved quickly by sea transports and would be on the scene in a day or two. If, however, he saw a revolt begin, he would send an urgent message to Nelson’s admiral of the Adriatic Sea, under his name as a close friend of the King, ordering him to intercept the transports and stop them. The admiral would not dare refuse.
To reach here, the French would be forced to march overland, weeks must pass, and by that time it would all be over. There would be no interference from the French.
This brought on much excited muttering but it was answered by savage snarls and then the harsh voice demanded something.
“How can we trust you will send this message? This may well be an evil trick to get those opposed to Selim to reveal themselves.”
Renzi was ready for that and played his trump card.
“The righteous, standing for their freedoms, will need a figure to represent them against the repressive rule of Sultan Selim. Who better than Prince Mustafa? In his innocence he will need guidance, which can safely be left in your hands.”
An immediate response showed he had hit the mark.
“The prince is in the harem, under the direct eye of the sultan, who knows too well he can be the centre of a rebellion. While he’s there, confined, we cannot move.”
“There is a way,” Renzi said. “Should he be told privily that an Englishman will hide him and he obeys, to Selim it will appear he has escaped. I am held in the tower as his pawn but he has no reason to distrust me.
“Gentlemen, your signal to rouse the people will be the disappearing of Prince Mustafa.”
It was bold to the point of madness but it was cunningly balanced. They must show their hand first but in turn he was required to act openly.
Whispering went on interminably.
Standing in the gloom on the carved furniture, Renzi knew he was very vulnerable-at any moment the little harem gate could be flung wide and they would be discovered. Yet he felt a giddy elation: this might succeed.
The murmuring suddenly stopped and the voice hissed something.
“We agree. A good plan. You will recognise the hand of justice begin its work. Then you will send your message to your great admiral pasha.”
Still trembling with reaction, Renzi lay on his bed in the shadows of night and reflected on what he’d done.
He brutally crushed any shame at the betrayal. There was no room for high morality, not with the lives at stake of the thousands who would face Bonaparte in his breakout to India. But was this a despicable justification for a tawdry attempt to seize success for his mission-or was he being swept along before forces he could no longer control?
Only one thing was morally certain in all this. He had been right to refuse Cecilia’s begging to accompany him.
Dear, sweet, darling Cecilia.
His eyes pricked and a wave of helpless emotion engulfed him. But in the darkness there was no one to see the tears.
The officer stalked into the barracks in Rumeli Kavak. He was a proud, trained captain in the Nizam-i Cedid and despised these yamaks, low-grade Circassian and Albanian auxiliaries, but he had his orders. Unwise ones, in his opinion, but from the very highest level, requiring his command to show their loyalty to the sultan by throwing aside their colourful traditional garb and putting on the new order uniforms of the reformed army.
They wouldn’t like it, but he was making sure of it by refusing to hand over their quarterly pay to any not in the new uniform.
Loudly he told them, not bothering to hide his contempt.
There was murmuring, which turned to shouts.
“Astsubay,” he roared at his sergeant. “Show these dogs!”
But the sergeant with the uniforms held back at the ugly press of men now bunching truculently in front of him.
“Go on! Don’t be afraid of such as these. They’re vermin and must obey orders!”
A dangerous edge lay on the shouts now and a burly yamak pushed himself to the front and folded his arms defiantly. “We don’t wear those accursed infidel goat-skins!” he snarled. “As Allah is my witness.”
The officer swaggered forward. “You’re an impudent fool. You’ll take my orders or suffer.”
The big yamak held his eyes with a sneer. Annoyed, the officer swept back his horse crop and made to slash the man across the face, but a beefy arm seized it. Astonished, the officer tried to free it but in one movement he was yanked forward off balance and a fist took him full in the face.
He cried out in outrage and crumpled to his knees. With a savage growl the yamak brought his linked fists down on the officer’s neck and he slumped to the ground.
“Damn him and his kind to hell!”
It released a fury and the officer disappeared under a hail of fists and clubs. The sergeant looked on in horror and turned to flee but was tripped and fell under an onslaught of murderous battering.
“We’ve nothing to lose but our yokes!” the man roared. “Let’s put an end here and now to this new order blasphemy. Follow me, those who have the heart and stomach to stop the desecration of our sacred fathers’ memory!”
There was a swelling uproar and yamaks spilled out into the night, whooping and yelling. It brought others, and the fever spread. Officers panicked and tried to flee but the soldiers knew they were untouchable, and years of degradation at the hands of the arrogant Nizam-i Cedid drove them on into open revolt.
The deputy grand vizier laid down the scribbled message with a smile. “There. It sufficed. We have our rising.”
“As Allah allows, Kose Musa,” chided Mehmed Ataullah, leader of the Ulema, but there was an air of triumph about him. “Now you must face Selim, of course.”
“Not yet,” Musa said smoothly. “Let matters take their course, mature a little.”
The sultan’s urgent summons came later, but he was ready.
“Great Khan, this is terrible news.”
“It is, Vizier. It has to be stopped before it spreads.” The sultan was pale and agitated.
“Yes, Sire. I’ve sent agents out to determine the ringleaders and await their return, but whatever else, we must not be seen to give it too much attention or we’ll be thought to fear the wretches.”
“We can stop it-call out the Nizam-i Cedid.”
“I cannot approve of that, Ghazi Sultan. Craving your forgiveness, it has to be said they are not admired absolutely and their appearance may well bring on the very situation we fear. It is a delicate situation and only level-headed leadership will answer.”
“So?”
“To prevent a conflagration, the Nizam-i Cedid should receive orders to remain in their barracks in Levend Chiftlik until the rising is put down. The Janissaries here-of long and ancient loyalties-will be sufficient to safeguard the palace, Supreme Lord.”
“Are you sure that … ?”
“It will be sufficient, Sire.”
Jago appeared before Renzi. “A Turk o’ sorts presents you with this ’un. Didn’t stay, m’ lord.”
It was the polite gift of a piece of gold cloth embroidered with an elaborate calligraphic device. There was no mistaking its significance.
“Thank you, Jago. We will have a guest. Do make up a tent or such next to mine, will you?”
“Yes, m’ lord.” Would nothing shake his impassive air?
Prince Mustafa was a deathly pale, willowy young man, with eyes like a frightened dove’s.
“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.