Istanbul, 1893
Snow melted into slush along the cobbles of Istanbul as the year turned toward spring. The Bosphorus, once shrouded in fog, now glittered with sun, reflecting the black smoke of factories and the silver masts of ships. But within Yıldız Palace, the season brought no warmth.
For Abdulhamid, order was not yet secure. The empire's body might be wrapped in sinew and steel, but infection spread through its veins. Russia, Britain, France — they all fed poison into his people. If centralization was to endure, those poisons had to be cut out, root and stem.
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Shadows in the Balkans
Selim entered one evening, his boots stained with travel dust. "Majesty," he said grimly, laying down a dossier, "Crescent Eyes uncovered a ring in Kosovo. Serbian priests smuggling pamphlets, urging revolt. They are funded directly from Belgrade, with Russian rubles as coin."
Abdulhamid's brow furrowed as he read. The pamphlets dripped with venom: "Turkish tyranny will erase your tongue. Rise now, or vanish."
He set the paper down, his eyes burning. "And their followers?"
"Dozens," Selim said. "Perhaps hundreds. If left unchecked, thousands. The seeds are there."
Abdulhamid leaned back in his chair. For a moment he was silent, remembering visions of trenches filled with Balkan soldiers in another life — visions of 1912, of empires bleeding out in fields of mud. He clenched his fist. Not this time.
"Send the priests to the gallows," he said coldly. "Make their deaths quiet but certain. Their pamphlets shall burn. And for every pamphlet destroyed, print ten Turkish primers and place them in children's hands. Fire destroys paper; ink survives in minds. That is how we win."
Selim bowed deeply. "As you command, Sultan."
And so, in the Balkans, fires consumed the pamphlets of rebellion, while Turkish schools sprouted like seeds. Crescent Eyes moved silently, strangling resistance in its crib. Yet where shadow struck, light followed — every village purged of priests received Turkish books, stipends, and food. The people learned that rebellion brought death, but obedience brought bread.
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Oil and Faith in Mesopotamia
Far to the south, Mesopotamia roared with oil fires and whispered with clerical discontent. British agents spread rumors that "Turkish prayers are false prayers," urging Arabs to resist the Turkish Qur'an.
Abdulhamid convened his ministers. "Faith is the empire's soul. If it fractures, all else collapses. We must bind the Arabs, not merely with coin, but with creed."
He ordered a bold step: the creation of a new Imperial Qur'an, printed in Turkish letters, with commentary emphasizing unity of the ummah under the Sultan-Caliph. Thousands of copies flooded Baghdad, Damascus, and Basra. Imams who adopted it received generous stipends and land. Those who resisted found their mosques closed, their followers scattered.
To cement loyalty, Abdulhamid expanded his population policies southward. Arab families who bore many children and sent them to Turkish schools received oil stipends and new farmland along the Tigris. Turkish-speaking families from Anatolia were resettled among them, diluting old tribal bonds.
A sheikh of Basra once protested: "Majesty, you make my people Turks, not Arabs."
Abdulhamid fixed him with a steady gaze. "Your people are already Muslims. To make them Turks is to strengthen them. A weak people clinging to division are prey to foreign jackals. A united people are lions. Choose what your children shall be."
The sheikh bowed his head. "Then they shall be lions."
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The Machine of Central Power
By summer, 1893, the Palace of Order had become more than symbol — it was practice.
Governors who failed to deliver taxes on time were removed overnight, their estates seized. Judges who ruled in local tongues were replaced by Turkish-speaking magistrates. Bureaucrats who dragged their feet were quietly dismissed — or made to vanish.
And everywhere, Crescent Eyes grew bolder. No whisper escaped their ears. Spies infiltrated consulates, post offices, and even foreign embassies. Reports reached Abdulhamid's desk daily — each coded, each precise. He read them as a surgeon reads wounds.
One night, Selim reported that French agents were stirring Christians in Syria. "They whisper of independence. They encourage priests to defy Turkish schools. They dream of carving a protectorate from our lands."
Abdulhamid smiled coldly. "Then let them dream. Crescent Eyes will turn their dreams into nightmares. Spread rumors of French blasphemy, pit Muslims and Christians against each other, and make their priests beg for protection from Istanbul. Divide them, Selim, and then embrace them. The empire does not forbid faith — but faith must kneel to unity."
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Assimilation in the Balkans
By autumn, Abdulhamid turned his gaze again to the Balkans. Reports arrived from Bosnia and Albania: some villages had embraced Turkish schools, but others resisted bitterly.
He summoned his council. "In the Balkans, resistance is stubborn. Priests cling to tongues, chiefs cling to tribes. But I tell you this: tribes and tongues may resist for a generation. Blood cannot resist forever. We must fill the Balkans not with armies, but with children."
Thus, he expanded his population act. Families in the Balkans who bore many children and enrolled them in Turkish schools received stipends doubled. Orphans were seized from rebellious villages, raised in imperial orphanages as Turks. Entire Turkish-speaking families were resettled into Balkan towns, changing their very fabric.
Some ministers balked. "Majesty, this will inflame rebellion."
Abdulhamid's eyes blazed. "Rebellion burns out. Bloodlines endure. When these children grow, they will not remember their priests' curses. They will remember Turkish prayers, Turkish words, Turkish songs. That is assimilation. That is victory."
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The Sultan's Reflection
One night, after a long council, Abdulhamid stood alone upon the balcony of Yıldız Palace. The Bosphorus shimmered beneath him, the city's chimneys glowing red in the distance. His hands gripped the rail as memories from another life stirred — trenches, broken empires, the Sick Man mocked and butchered by Europe.
But this time, he had steered the empire into steel and order. This time, rebellion was strangled, not indulged. This time, children were raised as Turks, not scattered tongues.
Selim joined him quietly. "Majesty. Crescent Eyes report that the Balkans simmer, but they no longer boil. The Arabs grumble, but stipends silence their hunger. The empire is yours, tighter than ever."
Abdulhamid's voice was low, almost prayerful. "Not mine, Selim. Allah's. He gave me this life not to rule for a day, but to forge for centuries. And centuries are built not of gold or blood, but of order."
He turned, eyes burning with the fire of vision. "Let Europe laugh. Let them call us tyrants. Their laughter will die with their children. Mine will live through mine — millions of them, across the empire, all Turks, all one. That is how eternity is built."
Selim bowed deeply. "So it shall be, my Sultan."
And thus, by the end of 1893, the Ottoman Empire no longer staggered like the Sick Man. It stood like a machine — fueled by oil, bound by steel, watched by shadows, and beating with a single heart.
The Palace of Order had become reality.
But beyond its walls, enemies sharpened knives. Russia watched the Balkans. Britain watched the oil. France watched Syria. And all of them whispered the same word: "Ottoman."
Abdulhamid smiled when he heard it. For the first time in centuries, the name was spoken not with pity — but with fear.