Sarajevo, April 1900
The streets of Sarajevo were restless. By day, Ottoman banners flew from towers, Turkish teachers walked schoolchildren in neat lines, and soldiers patrolled with rifles gleaming in the spring sun. But by night, whispers stirred. Guns smuggled from the north. Priests preaching rebellion in cellars. A plan to strike at the very heart of Ottoman authority—a governor's assassination.
Selim had caught the scent weeks before. Crescent Eyes agents slipped into the rebel circles, disguised as shepherds, innkeepers, even altar boys. They listened, waited, fed lies when needed. By the time the conspirators raised their daggers, their names were already inked in reports on Abdulhamid's desk.
On the night of the attempt, the rebels gathered near the governor's carriage route, pistols hidden beneath coats. But when they sprang, they found themselves surrounded. Crescent Eyes agents revealed their blades, soldiers closed the streets, and the assassins' pistols misfired—sabotaged long before by Selim's men. In the chaos, not one shot struck its mark. Instead, the assassins were dragged into the square, their wrists bound in iron.
The next morning, they were executed before the eyes of Sarajevo. But Abdulhamid had ordered a crueler punishment than death alone. Each man was forced to confess publicly, declaring how Russian coin and British promises had led them to treachery. Their words were printed and distributed, carried by rail to every Balkan town: proof that rebellion served not faith or freedom, but foreign masters.
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In the weeks that followed, the Sultan launched what he called the Resettlement and Renewal program. Land seized from rebels was parceled to Turkish families brought from Anatolia, escorted by the army and subsidized by the crown. Entire villages shifted overnight. New towns were planted beside rail lines, their streets laid straight, their schools teaching Latin Turkish. Local peasants who swore loyalty were integrated, hired in factories or mines, given wages instead of chains.
Resistance remained, but it weakened. A peasant who once whispered sedition now thought of his child's schooling. A trader who cursed the Turks now counted his profits on Ottoman railroads. The Balkan question was no longer about loyalty of the old—it became about the minds of the young, and the empire was winning them.
Even the churches bent. Orthodox priests had long resisted, clinging to Slavic tongues and Russian gold. But Crescent Eyes moved silently. Some priests vanished, replaced by those who preached in Turkish. Others were exposed in scandals of coin and concubines, their reputations destroyed. By 1900's summer, sermons in many towns were spoken in Turkish, even when the hymns remained old. Slowly, the faith bent toward the Sultan's will.
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Europe cried outrage. British papers screamed of massacres. Russian diplomats thundered in Petersburg. French priests petitioned Rome. But Abdulhamid was unmoved. He summoned his council, holding up a British newspaper that accused him of butchery.
"Do they weep for the Armenians in Russia? For the Irish in Britain? For the Africans in their colonies? Hypocrites all. Let them write until their fingers bleed. I write with steel. My words last longer."
The ministers nodded in silence.
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In July 1900, Abdulhamid traveled to the Balkans in person. His train rolled into Skopje, then Bitola, then Sarajevo. At each station, crowds gathered—some out of loyalty, some out of fear, most because they had no choice. He walked through factories where Turkish and Slavic workers labored side by side, through schools where children recited in Latin Turkish, through barracks where new recruits drilled in uniform, their accents already fading into one tongue.
At Sarajevo's great square, he addressed the people. His voice carried, stern and unyielding:
"For centuries, this land bled. Greek against Turk. Serb against Bulgar. Faith against faith. And who profited? The Russians, the British, the French—never you, never us. No more."
He raised his hand.
"There are no Greeks. No Serbs. No Bulgars. No Croats. Only Turks. And all who live under the banner of the empire are Turks. You will learn our language, our faith, our destiny. Resist, and you will be broken. Accept, and you will share in our greatness."
The square was silent. Then soldiers cheered, and their voices drowned the hesitation of the crowd.
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That evening, Selim stood with Abdulhamid on a balcony overlooking Sarajevo. The city lay quiet beneath them, its lamps glowing with oil drawn from Mesopotamia, carried here by Ottoman rail.
"Majesty," Selim said, "the rebels are crushed. Their leaders dead, their funds seized, their followers scattered. Europe rages, but their rage is hollow. For the first time in decades, the Balkans are still."
Abdulhamid clasped his hands behind his back, gazing at the stars. He remembered the 20th century of his other life, the Balkan powder keg that had exploded into world war. But now—now he had extinguished the fuse.
"No more uprisings," he murmured. "The Balkans are Ottoman. Forever."
Selim bowed. "Forever."
Abdulhamid's eyes turned east, beyond Anatolia, beyond Mesopotamia, to the steppes of Central Asia. A new horizon awaited. But he allowed himself one moment of peace. The Balkans—at last—were quiet.