THE seraskier pursed his lips.
“I doubt it can be done. Oh, operationally, yes, perhaps. We could flood the city with the New Guard, a man at every corner, artillery—if we could get it through—in the open spaces. Such as they are.”
He scrambled to his feet and went to stand by the window.
“Look, Yashim efendi. Look at these roofs! What a mess, eh? Hills, valleys, houses, shops, all straggling around little lanes and alleys. How many corners do you think I could find out there? Ten thousand? Fifty thousand? And how many open spaces? Five? Ten? This is not Vienna.”
“No,” Yashim agreed quietly. “But nevertheless—”
The seraskier raised a hand to stop him. “Don’t think I misunderstand you. And yes, I think something could be done. But the decision would not lie with me. Only the sultan can order troops out of barracks. Troops under arms, I mean. You think he can make this decision so fast?”
“He did ten years ago.”
The seraskier grunted. “Ten years,” he echoed. “Ten years ago the people were united with the sultan’s will. The Janissary menace had overwhelmed us all. But today—what do we know? You think Stambouliots will welcome my men with open arms?
“There is another thing I hesitate to point out. What happened ten years ago was not the work of a day. It took months, you could say years to prepare for victory over the Janissary rabble. We have twenty-four hours. And the sultan is—older. His health is not so good.”
He drinks, you mean, Yashim thought. M. Le Moine, the Belgian wine merchant in Pera, notoriously fortified the sultan’s wines with brandy. And what about the discovery only last year of a mountain of long-necked bottles in the woods close to where the sultan liked to take his family for picnics?
“There will be a Janissary insurrection,” said Yashim flatly. “I think it will take the form of a fire, or many fires, I don’t know. Either sooner or later the sultan will have to order out the Guards, to keep order and deal with the conflagration, and I for one would prefer it was sooner.” He stepped away from the window and turned to face the seraskier.
“If you won’t, even I will try to talk to the sultan,” he said.
“You.” It wasn’t a question. Yashim could see the seraskier weighing the situation. He stood with his back to the light, his hands clasped behind his back. The silence deepened.
“We will go together, you and I,” the seraskier announced at last. “But you, Yashim efendi, will make it clear to the sultan that this was your suggestion, not mine.”
Yashim stared at him coldly. One day, he thought, he would come across a man in the sultan’s service who would stand up and stand out for his beliefs. But not today.
“I will take responsibility,” he said quietly.
I’m only a eunuch, after all.