Summer 1908
The heat of Mesopotamia pressed down like a hammer on iron. The date palms drooped along the rivers, and the air shimmered above the tracks of the Baghdad Railway. Oil trains rumbled ceaselessly, their black cargo destined for the navy and factories. To Abdulhamid, it was proof that the empire's veins pumped lifeblood as steadily as his own heart. Yet the lifeblood was coveted by others, and where oil and rails spread, so too spread rebellion.
In the deserts near the Gulf, British gold found its way into tribal hands. Armed men raided rail depots, tore up tracks, and ambushed patrols. They shouted old banners of tribal freedom, waving rifles stamped with British marks. Their sheikhs claimed loyalty to Allah and tradition, but Abdulhamid knew their true master sat in London.
The reports reached Istanbul swiftly—not by courier, but by wireless. Within hours, Crescent Eyes had names, maps, and lists of accomplices. Selim stood in the Sultan's council chamber, the ink on the reports barely dry.
"Majesty," he said, "the tribes stir again. But this is no local discontent. It is directed, fueled, and armed. Our agents confirm British hands. They mean to choke the railway before it can bind Arabia to the empire."
Abdulhamid leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "And what have we done in answer?"
Selim's mouth curved into a grim line. "Already, Majesty, Crescent Eyes has moved. Caravans carrying rifles to the rebels were intercepted. Leaders who took British coin now lie silent beneath the sands. But the tribes remain restless."
The Sultan rose, moving to the great map of the empire that hung on the chamber wall. Red lines marked the railways, dots the radio towers, circles the refineries. His finger traced the southern arc—from Basra along the Gulf. "Arabia must be bound. Not by chains, but by rails, by schools, by mosques loyal to the empire. Rebellion comes from emptiness. Fill the desert with our presence, and rebellion withers."
The command was carried out with relentless speed. Soldiers rode the rails south, their rifles gleaming in the sun. Engineers followed, laying telegraph and radio lines deeper into Arabia. Schools opened in garrison towns, teaching children in Turkish. Doctors arrived with vaccines, curing illnesses long endured. For every raid, the empire built a station. For every ambush, the empire raised a flag. Slowly, the tribes learned that the Sultan's arm was longer than their desert, and his will heavier than their gold.
But mercy tempered steel. Where tribes bent, they were rewarded. Stipends flowed to sheikhs who sent their sons to Ottoman academies. Marriages were arranged between tribal families and loyal Turkish officers. The empire absorbed as much as it crushed, weaving threads of loyalty into the fabric of rule.
By autumn, the rebellions had faltered. Crescent Eyes completed the work in silence, assassinating those who still whispered to London. One night, Selim stood on the palace balcony with Abdulhamid, watching the Bosphorus lit by lamps. He reported without emotion: "Majesty, the tribes are quiet. The desert speaks Turkish now."
Abdulhamid gave a single nod. "Good. Let the British hear it too. Let them know their gold buys only graves."
Even as the deserts bent, the empire's heart grew stronger. The census had stripped away the fog that once cloaked the population. Istanbul knew the number of every family, the birth of every child, the harvest of every field. Schools multiplied like seeds after rain. In the Balkans, children no longer needed to be forced—they corrected their parents' tongues, scolding them for old dialects. In Mesopotamia, markets rang with Turkish words. In Arabia, young men drilled in uniforms, saluting the Sultan's flag.
The Academy of Sciences and Industry continued its march forward. Professors presented new marvels: medical treatments that saved thousands from disease, engines that ran cleaner on oil, experiments in long-distance radio speech that carried from Istanbul to Baghdad without distortion. In the workshops, students built machines of war and machines of peace alike—tractors for the fields, turbines for the rivers, armored cars for the army.
Foreign scientists walked the halls of Istanbul like guests in a palace. Germans, Austrians, even disillusioned Frenchmen brought their knowledge, finding in the Ottoman capital the freedom to experiment unfettered by petty parliaments and nationalist jealousy. Tesla's circle continued their work on wireless power and signals. One of his assistants demonstrated a radio beacon guiding ships into harbor through fog. Another proposed networks of transmitters covering the empire like a web of light. Abdulhamid listened, his mind leaping decades ahead. He remembered how radio had changed war, how radar had turned battles, how communication had bound armies together. He saw in their experiments the foundation of what was to come, and he approved every project.
Yet for all this brilliance, shadows thickened at the edges. Crescent Eyes intercepted messages between Russian generals, urging greater crackdowns in Central Asia. In Paris, newspapers printed caricatures of the "Iron Sultan," portraying him as a tyrant who smothered liberty under steam and steel. In London, the Foreign Office issued memoranda warning that the Ottoman resurgence threatened the balance of power. Selim laid these reports before his master, his face dark.
"Majesty," he said, "Europe no longer whispers. They speak openly. They call you dangerous."
Abdulhamid's eyes glinted like a blade. "Good. It means they see truth at last. We are no longer the sick man. We are the storm they fear."
But he did not underestimate them. From his first life, he remembered well how Europe had drawn lines, made alliances, and hurled millions into war. That war would come again, in its time. For now, he prepared. He tightened the central government still further, drawing power into his ministries, appointing loyal administrators, ensuring that when the storm broke, no province could slip away.
In December, as the year ended, he gathered his council one last time. Snow fell on the palace gardens, and lamps glowed against the darkness. Ministers spoke proudly of achievements—railways doubled, oil production soaring, literacy spreading. The empire was united as it had not been for centuries.
When all had spoken, Abdulhamid rose. His voice was quiet, but it carried to every corner of the chamber.
"My sons of the empire. We have forged steel, and we have kindled faith. We have bound the Balkans, Mesopotamia, Arabia, Anatolia. We are one. Europe sees us and trembles. They will come, as they always do, with threats, with plots, with armies. But this time, we will not meet them as the weak meet the strong. We will meet them as iron meets clay. And it will be they who break."
The council thundered with applause, but Abdulhamid stood still, his eyes distant. He alone carried the secret of what was to come, the memories of trenches and storms of fire. He had vowed never again to let the empire stumble blind into the jaws of war. The empire was ready now, but readiness was not victory. Victory would demand more. It would demand everything.
From the balcony that night, he looked out at the Bosphorus one last time before the year ended. The city glowed like a jewel of fire, factories roaring, ships steaming, towers blinking. It was the heart of a giant, strong and sure. He whispered a prayer only Allah could hear:
"You have given me this second life, not for my sake, but for theirs. Let me use it well. Let me forge eternity."
And in the darkness beyond, Europe sharpened its knives.