The Edict is just another worthless piece of paper. Equality, blah blah. There’s only one equality under these skies, and that’s when you’re in the line, shoulder to shoulder with the men beside you, taking orders. We could have figured that out years ago, but we grew crooked.”
“The Janissaries?”
The seraskier gave an amused grunt.
“The Janissaries—and their Russian friends. Some of them, I gather, were living in Russian territory. And the rebels wanted Russian help.”
“Who warned you?” Yashim asked. “Not Derentsov?”
The seraskier chuckled. “Derentsov doesn’t need money. It was your friend in the cab. The scarface.”
Yashim frowned. “Potemkin…kept you informed?”
“Potemkin informed me, initially. But he was too expensive. And too dangerous.”
Yashim regarded the seraskier in silence. “So you found someone else to keep you up to date with the Janissary plot. Somebody safe, who wouldn’t be much noticed.”
“That’s right. Somebody cheap and inconsequential.” The seraskier grinned, and his eyes widened with delight. “I found you.”
“I gave you the timing of the rebellion.”
“Oh more, much more. You kept the plot alive, didn’t you? You helped to create the atmosphere I needed. Down there, a city in panic. They’re defeated already. The Janissaries. The people. And now the palace, too.”
He ran his hand around his chest: a gesture of relish.
“For you, I’m afraid, I have a choice prepared between life and death. Or should I say, between devotion to the state and…what, a romantic attachment to an outdated set of traditions.” He paused. “For the empire? Well, the choice is made. Or will have been made in”—he drew a glinting orb from his pocket—“approximately eighteen minutes. The choice between all this, this weight and history and tradition, this great weight squatting over us all like the dome of Justinian’s cathedral—and starting fresh.”
“But the people—” Yashim began to interrupt.
“Oh, the people.” The seraskier half-turned his head, as if he wanted to spit. “The world is full of people.
“We’re well placed, up here, aren’t we?” the seraskier went on. “To watch the palace burn. And with the dawn, a new era. Efficient. Clean. The House of Osman served us well in its time, yes. Reform? An Edict? Written in water. The system is too crazy and tottering to reform itself. We need to start fresh. Sweep away all this junk, these pantaloons, sultans, eunuchs, whispers in the dark. We have suffered under an autocracy that doesn’t even have the power to do what it wants. This empire needs firm government. It needs to be run by people who know how to command. Think of Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Russia is unassailable. Without the czar it could beat the world. Without all its princes and aristocrats and courts. Imagine: run by experts, engineers, soldiers. It’s about to happen—but not in Russia. Here. We need the Russian system—the control of labour. The control of information. That’s an area for you, if you like. I’ve said you’re good. The modern state needs ears and eyes. We’ll need them tomorrow, when the first day dawns on the Ottoman republic.”
Yashim stared. He had a sudden vision of the seraskier the first time they’d met, reclining so awkwardly on his divan in trousers and a jacket, reluctant to sit at the table with his back to the room. A fine western gentleman
“Republic?” He echoed the seraskier’s unfamiliar word. He thought of the sultan and the valide, and all those women in the court: and he remembered the glittering fanatical light in the eyes of the leading eunuchs, and the unexpected death of the chief.
The seraskier had known that they would gather together. And he, Yashim himself, had persuaded the sultan to let the artillery into the city.
“That’s right,” said the seraskier curtly. “We’ve seen those weak old fools for the last time. Blathering about tradition! Padding round in their own nest, like silly chickens. Defying history.”
He drew himself up.
“Think of it as…surgery. It hurts, of course. The surgeon’s knife is ruthless, but it cuts out the disease.”
