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 Sebastiani, 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 Sebastiani 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,” Sebastiani 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.”
Sebastiani grunted dismissively and began pacing while Renzi smothered a sigh of relief. It appeared his secret was safe.
“So you really don’t know where you are?”
“No, I do not.”
“Then allow me to enlighten you. You’re in the Yedikule, Fortress of the Seven Towers, the worst hell-hole in Constantinople and reserved for foreign enemies of the state. There has been no mistake-the new order has decided. Above everything, it’s declared we’re both equally infidels and threatening to the old ways. Therefore our prospects are dim.”
Despite himself, Renzi felt a surge of sympathy for the man. Gifted and ruthless, he was a fine servant of his master Bonaparte and, but for Renzi’s coup, would have succeeded in his glorious destiny.
Sebastiani went on moodily, “Either they don’t know what to do with us or they’re taking precautionary hostages. In the first, we’ll probably be an embarrassment and will be eliminated. In the second we could still be here in ten years’ time.”
“We have to get out.”
“There’s no chance of leaving here by our own efforts,” mused Sebastiani. “Any release has to come from outside-influence, bribery, threat. Do you not agree?”
“Oh, well, yes, I imagine you’re right.”
“Now, how are we going to do that?”
“Perhaps by a letter of sorts. To someone we know will help?”
“Very good, milord,” Sebastiani said sarcastically. “And how-”
“Every man has his price,” Renzi said, as casually as he could. “When our gaoler finishes work today he seeks out my steward, for he has my note of hand. It instructs the fellow to hand over a certain sum-”
“Of your thirty pieces of silver!”
“-in return for my letter. This is then sent on urgently by my man. Then the world will know of my unjust sufferings in a Turkish prison.”
“Bravo!” exclaimed Sebastiani. “You have it, I’m persuaded. Were it not for one small detail.”
“Oh dear.”
“That he carries not one but two letters. One from me. No offence intended, milord, but I’ve a fancy I have more friends in this part of the world than your good self.”
“Really? The baskani of Gordion, a formidable scholar, is hardly to be scouted as a friend.” His real letter, of course, would not be heading there.
“A good man, but I was thinking of Marshal Marmont in Dalmatia at the head of forty thousand poilu.”
“I see. Well, shall we agree that the first to arrive with succour will take the other?”
“Only if the other accedes to the status of internee, as it were?”
“Agreed.”
CHAPTER 13
GUN-SMOKE DRIFTED ACROSS KYDD’S VIEW in the light winds but it didn’t hide the immense triangular red pennant atop the Turkish flagship, marking the centre of their fleet stretching away northwards.
Unlike British practice, they were engaging in “long bowls,” occasionally yawing to bring guns to bear on their pursuers, firing at extreme range, then resuming their flight.
What were they about, sailing ever deeper into the Aegean and away from the Dardanelles when they could either have retreated inside or turned and brought about a deciding battle? Were the Russians being led on, and if so, into what?
A few days earlier Kydd had taken up an offer from Senyavin to join a short cruise with the Russian Navy-his price, the spinning of yarns of Trafalgar and Nelson at wardroom dinners. It was all going very agreeably until a frigate had sighted the Turks and they’d immediately set off in pursuit with no time to send Kydd back to his ship.
Kydd had squared his conscience about being away from L’Aurore as she was safely anchored at Tenedos and, after all, it was his duty to make measure of the naval capabilities of a foreign power.
He’d taken the trouble to get around Tverdyi, a 74-gun ship-of-the-line that was as technically competent as a British ship-perhaps over-gunned and with her cramped hold-space not as capable of long sea voyaging but every bit as powerful.
His escort and interpreter was the amiable and intelligent Lieutenant Aleksey Ochakov, whose English had been won from a two-year voyage in a Baltic trader.
They had toured all parts of the ship, Kydd alert for differences, inadequacies, strengths.
In the matter of the Russian crew, he was left with an impression of courage but of the passive kind-endurance, able to take the worst without complaint. They were stolid, blankly obedient, never lively or spirited. In their off-watch hours they would pass their time at cards, in prayer, asleep on the hard deck-or picking fleas.
Ochakov had explained that the Baltic fleet in winter was iced in and the ship cocooned. The men dispersed ashore, becoming in effect soldiers.
They would seldom return to the same ship in spring and their few months of sea-time gave no chance to build up the bond between sailor and ship that was so much in Jack Tar’s blood.