“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 Kose 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 Aga 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.”
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.”