Baghdad, Spring 1902
The train screeched into Baghdad station, its oil-fed engine hissing steam into the desert air. Crowds lined the platforms, craning their necks for a glimpse of the Sultan who had brought steel to the sands. Ottoman banners snapped in the hot wind, and soldiers stood in perfect ranks, rifles gleaming.
Abdulhamid descended, his boots striking the platform with measured weight. Ten years ago, Baghdad had been a city of dust and forgotten promise. Now, the railway linked it to Istanbul in a matter of days. Refineries rose on the horizon, their chimneys belching smoke. Schools taught children in Turkish. Telegraph lines hummed along the tracks. This was not a frontier—it was a province bound to the empire's heart by iron veins.
Arab notables bowed stiffly as the Sultan passed. Some did so out of loyalty, others out of fear, but all recognized the shift of power. The tribes that once dictated terms to Istanbul now lived under the shadow of locomotives, garrisons, and factories.
That evening, Abdulhamid convened a council in Baghdad's governor's palace. Around the table sat Ottoman ministers, Arab sheikhs, and Turkish officers. Maps of Mesopotamia lay unfurled before them, marked with rails, pipelines, and schools.
"This land," Abdulhamid began, his voice steady, "is the empire's blood. From these sands flows the oil that feeds our ships, our trains, our factories. But oil alone is not strength. Men are strength. Families are strength. Children are strength. We do not conquer Mesopotamia with rifles, but with schools. With language. With unity."
He gestured to the maps. "Already, Turkish-speaking villages rise along the railway. Already, Arab children recite Turkish in their classrooms. Already, soldiers of Baghdad march with brothers from Anatolia and the Balkans. This is the second generation. Soon, there will be no distinction at all."
Some sheikhs murmured uneasily, but they did not dare protest. The Sultan's gaze was unyielding.
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The next day, Abdulhamid toured the refineries near Basra. Massive storage tanks gleamed under the sun, and pipelines stretched across the desert like veins of iron. Engineers—Turks, Arabs, and Bosnians alike—labored in teams, their commands shouted in Turkish. Crescent Eyes agents, disguised as laborers, watched from the shadows.
Selim walked beside the Sultan, lowering his voice. "Majesty, three weeks ago, a plot was uncovered. British agents bribed tribes to strike at the pipelines. Crescent Eyes removed the ringleaders quietly. Their bodies were left in the marshes. No tribe will touch British coin again."
Abdulhamid nodded. "Good. Oil is our lifeblood. It must be guarded more fiercely than gold. For gold feeds a day, but oil feeds centuries."
He paused before the roaring furnaces, their heat blasting against his face. He thought of the future he remembered—armies of tanks, fleets of planes, all drinking oil like water. The others saw only fuel for lamps and ships. He saw the empire's survival for generations.
"Selim," he said quietly, "ensure the refineries are guarded not only by soldiers, but by shadows. Every man who comes near oil must be watched. Every whisper traced. If the oil stops, the empire stops."
Selim bowed. "It will be done."
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Abdulhamid's tour continued through schools and barracks. In Mosul, he watched Arab children recite the Turkish alphabet, their voices high and sure. Their parents looked on from the doorway, unable to read the words their children spoke. The Sultan smiled faintly. This is how rebellion ends, he thought. Not with death, but with forgetting.
In garrisons, young men trained under Turkish officers, their orders barked in one tongue. No more units divided by ethnicity, no more commands lost in translation. They drilled as Turks, fought as Turks, and swore oaths as Turks.
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At the end of his Mesopotamian journey, Abdulhamid gathered his ministers in Baghdad. Around them, the city hummed with engines and prayers.
"The empire is no longer bleeding," he declared. "It is growing. In Anatolia, families multiply. In the Balkans, rebellion is forgotten. In Mesopotamia, oil feeds our furnaces and our schools feed new Turks. Science flourishes. Faith unites. We are not the sick man of Europe. We are the Iron Sultanate of Allah."
Selim leaned close, speaking softly so only Abdulhamid could hear. "Majesty, if the empire is so strong, where then is our horizon?"
Abdulhamid's eyes drifted eastward, beyond the Tigris, beyond Persia, toward the endless steppes. He saw, in his mind's eye, Turkic tribes under Russian rule, speaking tongues akin to Turkish, waiting for a call. He saw Persia, caught between Britain and Russia, a prize unclaimed.
"The horizon is not here," he murmured. "It is there. In the lands of our kin. In the lands of our enemies. We have bound the empire with steel. Now we must carry it beyond its borders."
Selim bowed his head. "Then Crescent Eyes will prepare."
Abdulhamid clasped his hands behind his back, his silhouette outlined against the desert sunset. "Yes. Prepare. For the engines are built. The empire breathes. And now, Selim, it must march."