1921, October 29th, Saturday.
The grey light of another Istanbul dawn crept into the Sultan's private study in Yıldız Palace, finding Murad already awake and poring over a fresh summary of overnight dispatches. He had slept little, his mind a crucible of information gleaned from the previous day's deluge of reports. Each fact, each figure, each veiled insinuation had been a nail hammered into the coffin of any youthful optimism he might have initially felt upon his reincarnation. What remained was cold, hard resolve, and the burgeoning architecture of a plan so audacious it would either save his new world or shatter it completely.
Today, he would face Damat Ferid Pasha again. This time, the Grand Vizier would not find a Sultan merely asking for information, but one armed with it, ready to dissect excuses and expose inadequacies. Later, he would meet Sheikh Saffet Efendi of the Jerrahi Order, a different kind of encounter, seeking a different kind of truth.
He took a sip of strong, unsweetened coffee, a habit he'd insisted upon, much to the surprise of the palace staff accustomed to the sweeter brews favored by his predecessors. The bitterness cleared his head, sharpened his focus. He was eighteen in form, but a lifetime of command and strategic thought from his other existence now overlaid that youth with an unnerving gravitas.
Hafız Bey announced the Grand Vizier precisely at the appointed hour, just after the morning prayers. Damat Ferid Pasha entered with his customary solemnity, but Murad detected a new tension in his posture, a slight wariness in his eyes that hadn't been there two days ago. The Grand Vizier had undoubtedly spent a restless night wondering what this boy-Sultan, who devoured official documents like a starving wolf, would throw at him next.
"Grand Vizier," Murad greeted him, remaining seated behind the large desk now neatly organized with specific files he had selected. "Thank you for your promptness. Please." He gestured to the same chair as yesterday.
Damat Ferid settled himself, his bulk seeming a little less imposing today. "Your Imperial Majesty. I trust you had a restful night. I have given further thought to the matters we discussed…"
"As have I, Pasha," Murad interjected smoothly, cutting off any prepared speech. He picked up a slender, red-bound ledger. "Let us begin with the Imperial Treasury. I spent several illuminating hours with these accounts. It appears, if my understanding is correct, that our total state revenue for the last fiscal quarter was approximately 7.8 million Ottoman Lira, while mandated expenditures, primarily those dictated by the Allied commissions for reparations and their occupation 'upkeep,' along with our own critically reduced civil list, amounted to 9.2 million Lira. A deficit of 1.4 million Lira in a single quarter, largely financed by short-term, high-interest loans from certain… Allied banking syndicates, further pledging future revenues that we do not possess."
Murad paused, his gaze level. "This, Pasha, is not governance; it is accelerated bankruptcy. You described our situation as 'delicate' yesterday. I would describe it as a patient bleeding out while the physicians discuss the weather. What specific measures, beyond further borrowing and deeper capitulation, has your government proposed or implemented to address this catastrophic fiscal hemorrhage?"
Damat Ferid's fleshy face flushed slightly. "Your Majesty, the economic realities imposed upon us by the defeat in the Great War are… exceedingly harsh. We are constantly negotiating for more lenient terms, for a rescheduling of debts…"
"Negotiating from what position of strength, Pasha?" Murad countered, his voice still quiet but with an edge that could not be ignored. "I have also reviewed the latest reports from the Ministry of War. Our 'army' within the Constantinople Demilitarized Zone and its immediate environs numbers less than fifteen thousand men, equipped largely with outdated Mausers, a handful of machine guns under Allied lock and key, and artillery pieces whose breechblocks are held by the British. You spoke yesterday of taking 'decisive action' against the nationalist forces in Anatolia. With what, Grand Vizier? With strongly worded memoranda? The intelligence from your own ministry, however biased, suggests Mustafa Kemal commands at least sixty thousand reasonably well-equipped and highly motivated men, fresh from victories against the Greeks. Are we to throw our handful of palace guards and dispirited gendarmes against such a force?"
The Grand Vizier shifted, his fingers drumming on the armrest of his chair. "The situation in Anatolia is complex, Your Majesty. There are many who are loyal to the Caliphate but are currently misled or coerced. We believe that a demonstration of firm resolve, coupled with the support of our… friends among the Allies…"
"Ah, yes. Our 'friends'," Murad said, picking up another document. "This is a copy of General Harington's latest directive, received three days ago, regarding the 'request' for Ottoman railway assets to be made available for the transport of Allied 'relief supplies' to Armenia – supplies which, according to a footnote from our own Ministry of Commerce, seem to consist primarily of military surplus. This directive effectively commandeers a significant portion of our remaining rolling stock, vital for any internal movement of our own goods or, theoretically, troops. Was this protested, Pasha? Was any counter-proposal made, any attempt to assert our residual sovereignty over our own infrastructure?"
Damat Ferid looked flustered. "Your Majesty, these are high-level Allied military decisions… to openly defy them would invite severe repercussions. We lodged a note of concern, of course, requesting clarification…"
"A note of concern," Murad repeated, his voice flat. "The lion roars, and the mouse squeaks its 'concern' before being devoured. Pasha, I have spent one day reviewing these documents. I am eighteen years of age. I have had no prior experience in statecraft in this life. Yet even I can see that the path your government is treading leads not to the preservation of the Sultanate, as you claimed, but to its utter and ignominious dissolution, piece by piece, until nothing remains but a name in history books, a cautionary tale of impotence."
He leaned forward. "Yesterday, I asked for unfiltered truths. Today, I ask for coherent strategies. What is your tangible plan, Grand Vizier – not hopes, not reliance on foreign goodwill that has proven illusory – but a plan, to stabilize the currency, to ensure the loyalty and effectiveness of what little armed force we possess, to counter the narrative from Ankara that we here are nothing but foreign puppets, and to regain some semblance of initiative in our dealings with the Entente? Or is your only plan to continue signing away what remains of our dignity until there is nothing left to sign?"
The silence in the room was thick. Damat Ferid Pasha seemed, for the first time, truly lost for words. He looked not at the Sultan, but at his own hands, clasped tightly in his lap. The boy was not a boy. He was something else, something new and unsettling. The questions were not just perceptive; they were surgical, laying bare the rot and decay at the heart of his administration.
"Your… Your Majesty," the Grand Vizier finally stammered, his voice losing its practiced sonorous quality, "these are criticisms of immense gravity. My government, under your late blessed brother, has always acted in what it believed to be the best interests of the Empire and the Caliphate, in impossibly difficult circumstances…"
"Beliefs are not results, Pasha," Murad said, his tone softening slightly, though his eyes remained hard. "I do not doubt the difficulty. I question the response. I am not seeking to lay blame for the past this morning; I am seeking a viable path for the future. If you have no such path to offer, then we must find one together, or I must find others who can help me forge it." He let that hang in the air. "For now, I want you to prepare for me, within forty-eight hours, a detailed proposal outlining concrete, actionable steps to address the fiscal deficit without further recourse to crippling foreign loans. Secondly, a realistic assessment of what military forces loyal to this government can actually be fielded, their true state of readiness, and how their loyalty can be absolutely secured. And thirdly, a re-evaluation of our policy towards Ankara – not one of immediate capitulation or blind antagonism, but one that explores all potential avenues, however unorthodox. Do you understand, Grand Vizier?"
Damat Ferid nodded slowly, his face pale. "I… I understand, Your Majesty." The fight seemed to have gone out of him, replaced by a dazed shock. "Good. You may withdraw. I will expect your preliminary thoughts on these matters when we next meet."
The Grand Vizier rose, bowed almost automatically, and departed, leaving Murad to stare at the closed doors. He had pushed hard. Perhaps too hard for a second meeting. But there was no time for gentle diplomacy within his own palace. The Empire was on a precipice. He needed to know if Damat Ferid was capable of change, or if he was merely an obstacle to be removed. The next forty-eight hours would be telling.
An hour later, after a simple breakfast taken at his desk while reviewing further notes, Hafız Bey announced the arrival of Sheikh Saffet Efendi. The leader of the Jerrahi Order was a man of perhaps sixty years, with a neatly trimmed white beard, intelligent, compassionate eyes, and an aura of profound serenity that seemed to fill the room as he entered. He wore the simple, dignified robes of his order, and his movements were unhurried, graceful. He offered a respectful bow, less formal than the courtier's, but deeper in its implied spiritual acknowledgment.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Sheikh Saffet said, his voice calm and melodious. "You honor this humble servant by requesting his presence. May Allah guide your reign with wisdom and justice."
Murad rose and gestured towards the chairs. "Sheikh Efendi, thank you for coming on such short notice. Please, be comfortable. I have not summoned you for matters of state protocol, but for counsel of a different nature." He waited until the Sheikh was seated. "These are dark times for our people, for the Ummah. The official reports I receive paint a grim picture of political and economic realities. But they tell me little of the heart of our city, of the spirit of our people. You, and your brothers, move amongst them. What do you see? What do you hear in the mosques, in the marketplaces, in the homes of ordinary folk?"
Sheikh Saffet regarded the young Sultan with a thoughtful gaze. "Your Majesty speaks with a wisdom that belies your youth. What I see… is confusion, fear, and a deep, aching sorrow. The people have suffered much – wars, losses, shortages, and now the humiliation of foreign soldiers walking our ancient streets as masters. They see their Empire, which they were taught was ordained by God, crumbling before their eyes. They feel adrift, their faith tested."
"And what of this government in Constantinople?" Murad asked. "Do they see it as their protector? Do they trust its pronouncements?" The Sheikh sighed softly. "They see a government that seems powerless, caught between the demands of the victorious Allies and the defiance of their Turkish brethren in Anatolia. Trust, Your Majesty, is a fragile thing, easily broken, hard to restore. Many feel that the voice of the Sultan, the voice of the Caliph, has been… muted, or perhaps speaks with words not entirely its own."
Murad absorbed this. It was a diplomatic but devastating assessment, confirming his own fears. "And the movement in Ankara, led by Mustafa Kemal Pasha? How is that perceived by the common man here in the capital?" "There is much division, Your Majesty. Some see Kemal Pasha as a savior, a ghazi fighting for Turkish honor and independence, upholding the true spirit of Islam against foreign encroachment. Others, influenced by official condemnations, see him as a rebel, a heretic even, sowing discord and defying the Caliph. Many more are simply bewildered, caught between two fires, praying for an end to the strife." Sheikh Saffet paused. "But the sentiment for resistance against foreign domination is strong, even among those who are wary of Ankara's methods. The people are tired of being dictated to by infidels."
"You mentioned your brothers, Sheikh Efendi. The Jerrahi Order is respected, its members travel widely, they listen. Do your channels of information extend beyond Constantinople? Perhaps into Anatolia itself? Do you have word, untainted by official filters, of the true conditions there, the true motivations of those who have taken up arms?" This was a delicate question.
Sheikh Saffet's eyes met Murad's, a spark of understanding within their calm depths. "Your Majesty, the paths of dervishes are many and varied. We seek spiritual knowledge, but we are not blind to the temporal world. We have tekkes and brethren in many towns, even in Ankara. We hear the concerns of the people there, their hopes, their fears. They too are Muslims, subjects of the Caliph, even if they find themselves at odds with the Caliph's earthly government."
This was the opening Murad had hoped for. "Sheikh Efendi, the official channels between Constantinople and Ankara are poisoned by mistrust and propaganda. If there were a need for… discreet communication, for a message of a different tenor to be conveyed, one that spoke not of ultimatums but of shared concerns for the future of our faith and our people, would your Order possess individuals of wisdom and discretion who might undertake such a delicate task, without fanfare, without political implication?"
The Sheikh was silent for a long moment, his gaze introspective. "Such a task would be fraught with peril, Your Majesty, for any who undertook it. But if the intention was pure, for the sake of Allah and the Muslim Ummah, to prevent further bloodshed among believers… perhaps. Discretion and piety are the hallmarks of our path."
"The intention is precisely that, Sheikh Efendi," Murad said earnestly. "To find a path away from fratricide, to see if there is any common ground upon which all Turks, all Muslims under Ottoman protection, can stand against those who seek to erase us from the map. I am not asking for allegiance to my person, or even to my government as it currently stands, but to a higher purpose."
"I understand, Your Majesty," Sheikh Saffet said slowly, a new light in his eyes. "I will… reflect upon this. And I will consult with those among my brethren whose wisdom and discretion are beyond question. If a trustworthy channel can be found, or a messenger of peace identified, you will be informed." "That is all I ask," Murad said, feeling a surge of hope. This was a more significant step than any he could take with Damat Ferid. "Your counsel has been invaluable, Sheikh Efendi. May I call upon you again?" "This servant is always at the disposal of his Caliph, especially a Caliph who seeks truth and the welfare of his people with such an open heart." The Sheikh rose, and Murad rose with him. After another respectful bow, the Sufi master departed, leaving an aura of quiet contemplation in his wake.
Murad spent the remainder of the afternoon in deep thought, the conversations with Damat Ferid and Sheikh Saffet replaying in his mind. He had shaken the Grand Vizier, perhaps enough to make him reconsider his position, or perhaps enough to make him a more determined enemy. He had found a potential, albeit fragile, line of communication towards Anatolia, one that bypassed the official animosities.
The path ahead was still shrouded in fog, but now he had a few flickering lanterns to guide his next steps. He needed to consolidate his own position within the palace, identify individuals who were not entirely beholden to the old guard or the Allies, and begin to build a constituency for a new, more assertive policy. Tevfik Pasha, the elder statesman. Fevzi Pasha, the disgruntled general. Their names were high on his list.
The second sunrise of his reign was setting. He had asked many questions, and heard many whispers. The foundations of the old order were indeed shifting, even if only he could feel the tremors clearly.