…Glenay…
He is still holding her hand, carrying the lantern in his other hand as they enter the house and go up the stairs. Lucien turns toward their bedchamber when he feels her hand slip from his. “What?” he says moving back to her.
“Come with me.” She turns in the opposite direction. “Shall I send for a footman?” She throws open the door to his library. He follows her inside, frowning. She looks pointedly at the banked fire, repeating, “shall I send for a footman?”
He grimaces irritably and moves to the fireplace, hunkering down to add wood until the flames are bright and brisk. When he stands up Sophia puts a glass of brandy in his hand. She sits in a comfortable chair arranged near the fire, settles a blanket over her lap and sips brandy. Lucien is still standing looking at her without expression. For a moment they regard each other steadily, and then he sits in the chair opposite her.
“You should be in bed. You need your rest and our journey to Paris will be arduous enough…” he trails off. It is his duty to point out the obvious, knowing she will ignore it. Sophia’s gaze does not waver. Lucien sighs and sits down.
“Talk to me,” her voice is soft. He studies the amber liquid, rolling it against the glass, the fire illuminating shades of gold and yellow.
“I missed all the signs,” he mutters. “I have tried to look back at when and how it all began what I knew and when I knew it. I should have done better Sophia. I knew about him – about Rochefort. Even before I went to the eastern Mediterranean with Benito. He loved that city, the markets, the chaos, the food, the people. We roamed through port taverns, he could practice six different languages within minutes, we drank things that should have killed us with the first swallow and ate glorious food unlike I had never had before.”
“You were young Lucien. It would have been…intoxicating. Benito was bigger than life – you have said so yourself. How would you have been aware of a figure behind him.” Lucien nods thinking of Benito, a big man drawing all eyes when he entered a room feared, admired, magnetic, “yes, that was true.” He continues.
“Benito met with people in those taverns. I was not allowed at the same table and I did not mind. There were…” he blinks as though remembering where he was and to whom he was speaking. “…other diversions.” Sophia smiles, “I have been told there are very beautiful women in that part of the world.”
“There is a very beautiful woman here.” She mocks a skeptical look and twirls a finger for him to keep going with his story.
“I only knew that Benito was interested in ships from a Company bearing a particular flag. Ships of a variety, in the Marmara and the Strait and in the Western Ocean. Even at that time, I understood enough to know it was astonishing that there were Company ships in the Black Sea. The Muscovites hated everyone, yet they did business with them. The Ottomans did business with them. We never engaged with those ships, and it was some time before I learned their common connection to one bank in Florence.”
Sophia gasps, “a Florentine banker…” Lucien nods.
“But Lucien, that was years and years ago. You were young.”
“I learned from my mother that he was already present long before I went aboard the Burla Negra. But you are correct that it was in the east that he first showed his hand. It alarms me to think that he may have always been present, even during the years when I was missing for everyone else.”
“I do not believe that,” Sophia says firmly, “this is your fear talking now and I will not allow that to prevail. Do not make him omnipotent. You are a match for him Lucien.” She frowns, “you started by saying you missed all the signs. What do you mean? You could not have known who he was or …”
“…would become?” Lucien finishes her sentence. “What I do see now is that Rochefort plays a very long game, his memory prodigious and with a remarkable eye for strategy and information gathering. There is no detail too small for him to keep for possible use. He has an ability to plan that is both flexible and specific enough to include multiple points of exit into a parallel game with the same objective but with new persons in the drama equally capable when actuated to carry out his plans.”
“You sound as though you admire him.” Sophia is astonished. Lucien smiles and reaches to pat her hand reassuringly. “I admire the mind that can do this, not the soul, if it can be said he has one. He is incapable of remorse, casually inflicting monumental suffering and pain.”
“What does he want?”
Lucien stares into the fire for the one word to summarize it all. “Power. To be able to bend the will of those who should never bend, whether it is through a king or a Hünkarım’s authority over a people, a sea or country, or a man he envied or a family that offended.” Suddenly he is animated.
“Imagine him in the majesty of a King’s court, or the grandeur and scope of the Hünkarım. He knows what he must master to touch the hems of kings and Hünkarıms, to present the impossible. Then and only then does he bring about a deal to enrich France and protect her borders? while dangling the French King in front of the Hünkarım.”
He looks at Sophia. “He did it once on a smaller scale and now I fear he is going to work another. Benito saw the signs and yet I learned nothing from him as I have failed all this time to see it.”
“How…”
“For me, it will begin this way. Rochefort gives the King the Company of the Orient – his ships. The King will not allow competition and fighting between us. I anticipate that the King will give my ships to the Company of the Orient. Do you see it? Rochefort shows the King his magnanimity in drawing me closer to him. Together, we are a French Navy, and I anticipate some excitement from him about it. I do not know how it will be for Athos, Porthos, or d ‘Artagnan. But I am certain he already has at least one strategy in play.”
Sophia gasps, eyes wide and then fiery with anger. “Roberval! His sister and his entire legacy, taken by Richelieu for the same purpose. How will you be used in this role? You had better think of something,” she charges him. “How do we fight Lucien?”
“That is what occupies my mind. Yusuf would say, “…to know your enemy, you must become your enemy…”
“I do not like the sound of that,” she counters.
“I must think as Rochefort does and in truth, he is familiar to me, but I cannot seem to find a way. I…” he falters, rubbing his forehead tiredly. Sophia slides off the chair and into his lap, resting her head against his chest.
“You will talk with Athos? And Marie?.”
“Athos has concerns enough. As much as I would like to pack us up, Layla and Rohan abandon Spain and we all depart for the New World, we must return to Paris.”
“Layla and Rohan will go to Spain, regardless of what you and I say,” Sophia murmurs unhappily. “How can this happen? Is this Rochefort too? Who is next…Suzanne? What about the plans for Samyar?”
“I am too many steps behind him.”
…Constantinople…two months earlier…
The moon hangs over the Marmara Sea, its surface smooth and opaque as it is seen from the watchtower. In the distance, lights begin to twinkle in a darkening Asia. It is the time between prayer calls for Magbrib and Isha. The guard watches a tall, well-built man, with a confident manner hurrying toward the Imperial Gate. He is a wealthy man, dressed in an elegant colorful kaftan, his turban intricate. He is followed by two servants dressed in simple clothes, but of good quality cloth. One carries a jade water carafe and writing box the second his master’s armaments, a jewel handled sword and gleaming musket thrust through a tooled leather belt. Master and servants pass through the Imperial Gate and continue to the Gate of Salutation flanked by tall, rounded towers. Here, the servants must wait as their master walks through the gate and into the Courtyard of the Imperial Council.
Kuvvat Rashidi pauses before proceeding to the colonnaded porticos. He expected to be summoned to the offices of the Grand Vizier in the Sublime Porte. Instead, he is directed to Saray-ı Cedid-i Amire, the Hünkarım’s palace. This is not a single structure, but a vast complex of courtyards, buildings, colonnaded porticos, kiosks and gardens. The night air is cool, and it carries sweet garden scents overlaying the earthy tang of horses from the stables. He walks through the porticos toward the Kubbealtı where he is shown into a stone waiting room.
The door opens, Rashidi stands and takes a deep steadying breath before entering the Kubbealtı. He has been here before, but the effect is always the same. The figures of men are made small and insignificant in its immense proportions, domed ceiling and opulent grandeur in gold and the intricate designs of the finest decorative tiles. It overwhelms as it is intended, reminding those present of the absolute power and authority of the Hünkarım.
The Grand Vizier is on a divan on the other side of the room, a sofra before him. Oil lamps a illuminate a circle where he is centered as the rest of the room recedes in shadows. Rashidi waits for his eyes to adjust to the dim light and then crosses the room. He bows, moving his right hand to his chest, mouth, and forehead. The Grand Vizier nods, and waves Rashidi to a divan. A servant glides silently to set a tray of small pastries, dates and coffee in small cups and withdraws. Rashidi takes a surreptitious look up in the direction of the gold screen lattice, the Kafes-i Müşebbek, where the Hünkarım can watch in secret. He looks back at the Grand Vizier and frowns. There is something amiss with the current Grand Vizier. It is not the first time he has had this troubling thought. The man before him is the third in a matter of months to assume the position of the highest level of the court hierarchy, second only to the Hünkarım. Tomorrow his head might end up in the same basket as two others before him. Rashidi glances again toward the Kafes-i Müşebbek and wonders who is behind it.
“I have the agreements with the Company of the Orient for you to deliver to our envoy Salih Bey in Paris. He is thoroughly briefed on the details and will present the signed contract to the French King and his advisors.”
“There is a contract with the Company?” Kuvvat does a poor job of keeping astonishment out of his voice. He knows the Company of the Orient. He looks at the thick sheaf of documents, “what did they offer?” he wonders why the Company did not work through him as he has done so previously.
The Grand Vizier sets down his quill and levels a gaze at Kuvvat. “We understand the French King anticipates an expansion of his fleet with another French merchant company. And they seek more than expanded trade.”
“What is the source of this information?” Kuvvat evades specifics, startled. His first thought is that his friend and sometimes partner Francois Roberval cannot yet know he is now allied with the Company of the Orient. He wonders if other French merchants with representatives in Istanbul know how their business is about to change.
“Perhaps you are concerned about your own alliances with Roberval Effendi.” Kuvvat inclines his head in acknowledgement but stays silent. The Grand Vizier makes a small smile, “we make an offer of preference for certain fees and ports. Of course, the Muscovites will find a way to make it difficult but that is always their way. We have promises they will not raise more than the usual objections. Assurances of preferment seems to make everyone feel better.”
The man makes no sense Kuvvat thinks. He is repeating words someone told him to say without understanding the meaning. The Muscovites will be furious, as will every other ship under a flag who will need to move or wait for the Company of the Orient.
The Grand Vizier is not finished. “It has been decided to award your family trading privileges on the Orta Kol. You have the languages for it and know the trades. I believe you will serve your Padisha well.”
Kuvvat is stunned, understanding that he is being bribed. The merchant trade on the Orta Kol is of luxury goods and spices, as well as food products, to support cities, metals, firearms and ammunition for the army that travels this route into central Europe. It is among the most coveted of the caravansary routes. The Orta Kol is far more than a trade route. Spying is always assumed, but what more will he be obligated to do? The contracts are highly important to someone in Istanbul and someone in the French court. He will sail for France and deliver the documents to Salih Bey. For the first time Kuvvat thinks of his father who lives most of the year in France in the home of his friend Lucien Grimaud. He can visit his father and that pleases him. He knows Francois Roberval is planning a trip soon to bring Lucien Grimaud’s son back for studies in trade and diplomacy, which is done by other wealthy French merchants. There is nothing else for him to do except make plans to sail for Marseille.
Kuvvat Rashidi places his right hand on his heart and bows, ““Pasha, Sadakatle…Emir ve fermanınız başım üzeredir”
…I obey absolutely…
Twelve Years After 