1921, October 28th, Friday
The transition from the formless void of non-existence to the confines of flesh and blood had been jarring, an icy plunge into a sea of bewildering sensations. Now, perhaps thirty-six hours into this new reality, a fragile equilibrium was beginning to assert itself. He stood by the tall, arched window of a vast bedchamber, the pre-dawn light painting the scene outside in hues of muted grey and violet. Cypress trees, like solemn sentinels, guarded the sprawling gardens of Yıldız Palace. Beyond them, the faint silhouette of minarets and domes stitched the horizon of Constantinople, a city pregnant with history, now groaning under the weight of its impending doom.
His empire. The thought was still a foreign object in his mind, one he turned over and over, examining its impossible facets. He was Sultan Mehmed Vahideddin, called Mehmed the Sixth by the pronouncements of the Imperial Divan just yesterday, ruler of the Sublime Ottoman State, Caliph of Islam. And he was, by the reckoning of this world, eighteen years of age, thrust onto the throne by the sudden, final illness of his elder brother, Sultan Mehmed V Reşad, who had breathed his last only two days prior.
He flexed the fingers of his right hand, watching the way the pale, unblemished skin stretched taut over a youth's knuckles. So very different from the hands he vaguely, achingly remembered – hands that had known labour, the grip of tools, the texture of old paper, the lines of age. This body was light, almost fragile, yet thrummed with a nervous energy he hadn't felt in… well, in a lifetime.
A bitter smile touched his lips, unseen in the dim light. Yesterday had been a whirlwind: the hurried Cülûs ceremony, the symbolic girding of the Sword of Osman at Eyüp, the pledges of allegiance from men whose eyes held a mixture of pity, calculation, and thinly veiled opportunism. They saw a boy, a placeholder perhaps, certainly not a savior. In the recesses of his mind, a new name had already taken root, a private vow: Murad. Not Mehmed VI, the historical footnote, the last, lamentable Sultan. But Murad… a name that echoed with past glories, a name he would imbue with future strength, or perish in the attempt.
The pashas, the viziers, the entire Imperial bureaucracy, he knew, would be assessing him. Young. Untested. Surely malleable. A blank slate upon which they could write their own ambitions, or at least, maintain their precarious positions in the crumbling edifice of power. He could almost hear their whispered calculations, their veiled condescension, even now as the palace slumbered fitfully around him.
Let them. He had used the few stolen hours of the night, after the exhausting rituals of ascension had finally ceased, to simply be, to anchor himself in this young body, this opulent prison, this critical juncture in history he knew far too much about. The Armistice of Mudros, signed three agonizing years ago. The humiliating Treaty of Sèvres, dictated by the victorious Entente just last year, a death warrant for the Empire. The Allied warships a constant, arrogant presence in the Bosphorus, their guns a silent promise of retribution for any defiance. The burgeoning nationalist resistance in Anatolia under one Mustafa Kemal Pasha… the pieces of a disastrous puzzle were all laid out in his memory, a roadmap of failure he was now inexplicably positioned, however improbably, to alter.
A delicate chime from a nearby Boulle standing clock marked the hour. Four in the morning. The palace was stirring. He had been left alone for a mere handful of hours, a brief respite before the relentless machinery of state sought to engage its new, uncertain cog.
A series of soft, rhythmic knocks sounded at the massive, inlaid chamber doors. Three distinct raps, followed a respectful pause. "Your Imperial Majesty?" The voice was aged, slightly reedy, but carried an undeniable undercurrent of authority and long practice. Hafız Lütfi Bey, the Lord Chamberlain, a man whose service spanned the reigns of Abdülhamid II, his recently departed brother Mehmed Reşad, and now himself. Murad turned from the window, composing his features into an expression of calm attentiveness he did not entirely feel. The silken sleeping robe, embroidered with intricate golden threads, felt like a costume from a play he hadn't auditioned for. "Enter, Hafız Bey."
The doors opened with a quiet sigh, revealing the Chamberlain, a man whose posture was as starched as his collar, his face a carefully neutral mask honed by decades of navigating the treacherous currents of the palace. He executed a precise bow, not too deep, not too shallow – a gesture perfected for new masters. "Auspicious be your morning, Your Majesty. Forgive this early intrusion, but the affairs of the Empire, alas, do not observe the courtesies of dawn, especially in such times of transition." Murad inclined his head. "Nor, it seems, does the profound grief for my esteemed brother grant us much pause for reflection. The world moves quickly, Hafız Bey, especially when it perceives an empire in disarray."
The Chamberlain's eyes, dark and observant, flickered for the briefest of moments. An unusual turn of phrase for a youth barely out of the confines of the princely apartments, one who yesterday seemed almost overwhelmed by the sudden weight of the world. "Indeed, Your Majesty. Wisdom beyond your years. The funeral arrangements for Sultan Mehmed Reşad, may Allah grant him paradise, are proceeding with all due solemnity as tradition dictates. A public announcement of your noble ascension has been proclaimed. The diplomatic corps are already making fervent inquiries for audiences to present their credentials and condolences."
"And the Grand Vizier?" Murad asked, keeping his tone even, his gaze direct. "Damat Ahmed Ferid Pasha awaits in the Crimson Antechamber, Your Majesty. He arrived before the first call to prayer, stating the urgency of matters concerning the Allied High Commissioners and… other internal securities vital for the stability of the State." Hafız Bey's voice was meticulously devoid of inflection when he mentioned the Grand Vizier, a neutrality that in itself was a form of commentary.
Murad knew of Damat Ferid Pasha, not just from the immediate, cautious briefings of the past day but from the stark, unforgiving pages of history he carried within his reincarnated consciousness. A man widely seen, then and now, as too eager to please the Entente powers, too quick to sacrifice sovereignty for a fragile, supervised peace. An architect of much that had led the Empire to this precipice. "Let him wait a few moments longer, Hafız Bey," Murad said, a subtle test of the established protocols, a small assertion of his new authority. He walked towards a small table where a silver carafe of water and a single crystal glass had been placed. "I find myself in need of refreshment. And you will tell me, Chamberlain, before the day's tempests begin, what is the true spirit of Yıldız this morning? Beyond the hushed tones and the hastily prepared black armbands. Is it genuine grief? Calculated fear? Or perhaps… burgeoning opportunity?"
Hafız Bey's composure was admirable; the old courtier did not blink. "Your Majesty, the palace is, as it has always been, a microcosm of the Sublime State itself. It grieves for a departed sovereign, a benevolent brother to Your Majesty, and looks with prayerful anticipation towards the new. There are always those who fear change, Your Majesty, and those who see in it the potential for… renewed vigor." His choice of words was exquisitely careful, typically diplomatic.
Murad poured a glass of water, his hand surprisingly steady. "Renewed vigor. I find that phrase agreeable. We shall require a great deal of it if the Ottoman sun is not to set entirely." He took a slow sip, his eyes meeting the Chamberlain's over the rim of the glass. "See that Damat Ferid Pasha is shown in when I ring. And Hafız Bey," he added, as the Chamberlain was about to withdraw with another bow, "ensure that all reports, from this day forward, intended for my eyes, reach my desk complete and unfiltered. I prefer my truths stark, even if bitter, rather than softened by well-intentioned, or otherwise motivated, intermediaries."
A slight, almost imperceptible, widening of the old man's eyes was his only visible reaction. He had perhaps expected a period of gentle handling, of being led by the more experienced hands of the Divan. "As Your Imperial Majesty commands. Unfiltered truth it shall be." He bowed again, a fraction deeper this time, and retreated, closing the doors with the same quiet efficiency.
Murad finished his water. Unfiltered truths. That would indeed be a novelty in this den of sycophants, schemers, and men terrified of responsibility. He walked to a small, silk-tasseled bell-pull beside the marble fireplace and gave it a firm, decisive tug. It was time to face the first, and perhaps most influential, of the old guard.
The doors reopened to admit Damat Ferid Pasha. The Grand Vizier was a man of considerable girth, his official Stambouline frock coat, adorned with the Nishan-i-Osmanieh, seeming to strain slightly at the seams. His face, framed by a neatly trimmed grey beard, was fleshy and bore an expression of practiced solemnity mixed with a keen, assessing gaze that swept over the young Sultan. Murad had chosen to stand not by a throne or a grand desk, but near the window, forcing the Grand Vizier to traverse a portion of the expansive room, the embryonic light of dawn now beginning to illuminate the rich Persian carpets and gilded furnishings more fully.
Damat Ferid performed a low, formal bow, his eyes attempting to gauge the youth before him. "Your Imperial Majesty," he began, his voice smooth, resonant, a well-honed politician's instrument. "A new sun rises on the Empire, and with it, our fervent prayers for the wisdom, fortitude, and longevity of your sacred reign. Though these are times of profound trial and great sorrow for the loss of your noble brother and our sovereign, Allah's compassion is boundless, His wisdom infinite."
Murad gestured towards a pair of carved, high-backed chairs upholstered in crimson velvet. "Pasha. Your loyalty and swift attendance in these early hours are noted. Please, be seated. The sun has indeed not yet fully risen, but the troubles of the Empire, I feel them already pressing in, are wide awake and clamoring for immediate attention." He chose his words with deliberation, echoing his earlier sentiment to Hafız Bey but directing it now, with sharper intent, at the Grand Vizier.
Damat Ferid's eyebrows, thick and dark, twitched upward almost imperceptibly. This was not the hesitant, easily awed boy he might have anticipated from yesterday's subdued figure. He settled into the chair, his bulk seeming to make the sturdy furniture creak faintly. "Your Majesty speaks with a prescience that is… striking for one so recently burdened with such awesome responsibilities. The burdens are manifold, it is true. The most immediate pressing matter, as your devoted Chamberlain may have informed you, concerns the Allied High Commissioners. They have, of course, extended their formal condolences on the passing of your august brother. They also… they seek an immediate audience to acknowledge your blessed ascension and to, ah, reiterate the paramount importance of the ongoing agreements that ensure stability in the city and the wider regions under our… shared stewardship."
Shared stewardship. A silken glove over an iron fist of occupation. Murad felt a cold knot tighten in his chest, the phantom sensation of shackles he was determined to break. "Agreements that ensure stability, you say, Pasha. Tell me, what precisely is the nature of this 'stability' they are so keen to maintain? Is it the stability of a patient etherized upon a table, awaiting the surgeon's leisurely knife? Or the stability of a corpse, beyond all struggle?"
The Grand Vizier's jowly face stiffened. A faint flush, visible even in the grey morning light, crept up his neck. "Your Majesty! Such… stark imagery! We are navigating a most delicate and perilous period. The Great Powers, they are vigilant…" "They won the war, Pasha," Murad interjected, his voice quiet but imbued with a steely quality that belied his eighteen years. "Let us not cloak reality in velvet phrases that serve only to deceive ourselves. They won. We lost. Now they dictate, and we, it seems, are expected to comply without question. What specific 'ongoing agreements' are they so anxious for this new, and in their eyes, undoubtedly inexperienced, Sultan to reaffirm without a moment's delay?"
Damat Ferid cleared his throat, a dry, rasping sound in the quiet room. "There are protocols, Your Majesty, established by the Armistice of Mudros three years past, and further clarified by… subsequent understandings reached by my government under your late brother's authority. These pertain to matters of Allied troop movements within the city and the Straits, the joint administration of certain key districts and resources, the continued demobilization of our remaining Imperial forces as stipulated by the Treaty of Sèvres…"
"The Treaty of Sèvres," Murad mused, letting the name hang in the air like a foul miasma. "A treaty signed by your government, Pasha, but one which, if my understanding from my studies is correct, has yet to be ratified by any truly representative assembly of the Turkish people. A treaty that vivisects our ancestral homeland like a butcher carving a carcass. Is this the true foundation upon which we are building this lauded 'stability'?" He watched the Vizier closely. He wasn't making an outright accusation, not yet. He was merely probing, laying out the unacceptable facts as he knew them from a future Damat Ferid could not possibly imagine.
"Your Majesty, the situation at the time of its signing was… and it remains… exceedingly complex, fraught with dangers," Damat Ferid said, his voice losing some of its earlier mellifluousness, taking on a more defensive, almost paternalistic edge. "To resist further at that juncture would have meant the utter annihilation of the Caliphate itself, the full military occupation of what remains of Anatolia, the end of the Ottoman dynasty. The Treaty, undeniably harsh as it is, preserved the Sultanate, preserved a semblance of Ottoman administration, under Allied supervision and guidance, naturally." He spread his hands in a gesture of beleaguered reasonableness. "It was presented as the lesser of two evils, a bitter cup we had to drink to survive."
"And what of the 'other evil,' Pasha?" Murad pressed, leaning forward slightly in his chair, his young face intent. "This Mustafa Kemal Pasha and his so-called Grand National Assembly in Ankara. You referred to them as 'rebels' and 'misguided elements' in your earlier communications with my late brother's Divan, I recall reading some of those dispatches. What is the current strength, disposition, and popular support of these 'misguided' patriots who dare to challenge your government's definition of national preservation?"
Damat Ferid shifted uncomfortably in his seat. The young Sultan's gaze was unnervingly direct, his questions sharp, unclouded by the expected deference or youthful naivety. This was not the script he had envisioned for his first true audience. "They are a persistent thorn in our side, Your Majesty, a collection of demagogues and disgruntled former officers preying on the understandable frustrations of the Anatolian populace. They disrupt legitimate commerce, incite rebellion against the Caliph's sacred authority, and worse, they draw the increasing ire of the Allied powers, thereby complicating our delicate negotiations for a more lenient application of the treaty terms. We are, of course, taking measures. Diplomatic overtures, offers of amnesty for those who lay down their arms and return to the fold of loyalty. The British, in particular, have offered their assistance in restoring order in the interior, should our own efforts prove insufficient."
"British assistance," Murad echoed, a faint, almost imperceptible trace of cold irony in his tone. "Their benevolent assistance in Mesopotamia and Palestine has been so… manifestly beneficial to the local Arab populations, has it not? Resulting in such peace and gratitude. Tell me plainly, Grand Vizier, what actual resources does our government, the legitimate government of the Sultan and Caliph in Constantinople, possess to assert its will? Either against these Anatolian 'rebels' or, should the unthinkable need ever arise, to negotiate with the Allied powers from a position of something other than utter prostration?" He paused, then added, his voice dropping slightly, "What is the true state of our Imperial Treasury? What are the numbers and morale of our remaining loyalist military forces, however diminished they may be by treaty? And what, beyond the curated reports you might receive, is the true sentiment of the common people in Constantinople itself, let alone in the provinces still loyal to the throne?"
The Grand Vizier blinked, his composure visibly strained. This was not an interrogation he had anticipated, nor was he prepared for its sheer acuity. He had come prepared to offer condolences, to gently guide the new, young ruler, to affirm his own indispensable role in the continuity of government. Instead, he found himself on the back foot, facing a barrage of precise questions that were not only astute but also carried an unnerving undercurrent of… command.
"Your Majesty," Damat Ferid began, trying to rally his considerable experience, "these are all matters of the gravest importance, vital statistics of the state, which I fully intended to brief you upon comprehensively over the coming days, once the initial period of mourning had passed. There are detailed reports, financial assessments… The treasury, it is regrettably true, is severely depleted by long years of war and the heavy indemnities imposed upon us. Our loyal military forces are… significantly constrained by the Armistice terms and the subsequent Allied directives. As for public sentiment, the people are weary of conflict, naturally. They crave peace and stability above all else."
"And they believe your government, in close concert with the Allied High Commissioners, is the sole and effective guarantor of this longed-for peace and stability?" Murad asked, his voice deceptively soft, yet piercing.
Damat Ferid hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. "They… they look to their Sultan, their Caliph, for guidance and salvation, Your Majesty. Your blessed ascension, even in these sorrowful circumstances, brings a new ray of hope to a troubled populace."
Murad rose slowly from his chair and walked back towards the window, gazing out at the now clearly dawning city. The Bosphorus was a silver ribbon in the distance, a few early fishing caiques already making their way. Closer, within the palace grounds, he could see the distinct, foreign uniforms of an Allied patrol near one of the outer gates – a constant, galling reminder of their subjugation. "Hope, Pasha," he said, his back to the Vizier, his voice resonating with a depth that seemed out of place in his youthful frame. "Hope is a powerful, indeed a sacred, sentiment. But it must be nurtured with more than just eloquent words and unquestioning acquiescence to foreign demands." He turned, his eyes, dark and intense, pinning the Grand Vizier. "I wish to see all relevant reports delivered to my private study this very day. The complete treasury accounts, the latest unvarnished military assessments – however grim they may be – the full summaries of all Allied directives and communications since the Armistice, and the most recent, unfiltered intelligence regarding the situation and personalities in Ankara. I will also require a full list of the current members of the Imperial Council, their primary known affiliations, and their voting records on key past decisions."
He saw the surprise, and something akin to genuine consternation, play across Damat Ferid's usually placid features. "Today, Your Imperial Majesty? That is… a truly vast amount of material. Some of it highly sensitive. Perhaps over the next few days, I can personally oversee the preparation of summaries, to ease Your Majesty's burden…"
"Today, Grand Vizier," Murad affirmed, his voice calm but carrying an unyielding edge of steel. "You said yourself the troubles of the Empire are wide awake. I see no reason why its Sultan should be any less alert, or any less informed. You may delegate the compilation of these documents, of course, but I expect them on my desk before the evening call to prayer." He paused, a thoughtful, almost distant expression on his young face. "And one more directive, Pasha. You will cancel any… 'diplomatic overtures' or offers of 'amnesty' currently being prepared for transmission to Ankara or its affiliates. Until I am fully and personally appraised of the entirety of this complex situation, this government will issue no new pronouncements or engage in any new initiatives on that particular matter. All existing channels of communication are to remain open for intelligence gathering only, not for negotiation or concession."
Damat Ferid Pasha visibly recoiled, his jowls quivering slightly. "Your Majesty! To halt such initiatives without consultation… it could be gravely misinterpreted! It could embolden the rebels further! The Allied powers might see it as… a dangerous shift in policy!"
"As a sign that the new Sultan of the Ottoman Empire intends to understand the full scope of his perilous inheritance before committing himself and his people to a path perhaps too hastily embraced or too feebly defended by his predecessors?" Murad finished for him, his gaze unwavering. "Let them interpret it as they will. My first priority is unvarnished truth, my second will be considered strategy. That will be all for now, Grand Vizier. You may send Hafız Bey to me when the first sets of documents begin to arrive."
The Grand Vizier, Damat Ahmed Ferid Pasha, a man accustomed to wielding immense influence, rose slowly from his chair. His face was a complex mask of confusion, affronted dignity, and a dawning, reluctant, and deeply unsettling respect. He bowed, more stiffly this time, his earlier unctuousness replaced by a wary formality. "As Your Imperial Majesty commands."
He backed out of the room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a soft thud, leaving the young Sultan once more alone in the vast, ornate chamber. Murad let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The first exchange was over. He had drawn a line, however faint, in the shifting sands of power. He was eighteen years old, inhabiting a body that was not truly his own, seated upon a throne that was more of a viper's nest than a seat of glory, and nominally ruling an empire that was, by all rational calculation, already dead and awaiting burial.
But the sun was now fully risen, its golden light flooding the room, chasing away the last of the pre-dawn shadows. And Murad, the seventh of his name in his own private, silent reckoning, intended to meet its challenge head-on.