“This banner,” said the herald, pointing to a somewhat frayed piece of green cloth on a block of sandstone next to the gate, “is the flag of the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him.”
Eleonora leaned closer to the flag, which was embroidered in silver calligraphy. In the name of God, the merciful and magnificent.
“It marks the entrance to the private chambers of His Excellency. I cannot pass beyond this point.”
He made a motion to one of the guards, then bade his farewell and hurried down a side path. Eleonora stood for a few moments next to the banner of the Prophet before she spoke.
“Excuse me,” she asked in the general direction of the guards. “Should I stand here, or is there somewhere else I should wait?”
Staring straight ahead, at some undefined point in the middle distance, the guards remained silent. Still quite unsure in her voice, Eleonora thought it was possible that she had not spoken clearly enough.
“Is this where I should wait?” she repeated, much louder this time.
Still, the guards did not acknowledge her presence. It was as if she hadn’t spoken at all.
“Excuse me.”
She took a step forward and waved her hand in front of the guard closest to her. He had dark blue eyes like tiny jewels, and a thick scar split his cheek from temple to mouth. Lowering his gaze, he looked at her, then placed his hands over his ears and shook his head. He was deaf, it seemed. Pointing to a bench at the other side of the gate, the guard resumed his post.
Eleonora didn’t feel like sitting. She was far too nervous to sit. Nevertheless, she followed the guard’s finger to the marble bench, turned, and looked out over the garden she had just come through. It was then that she noticed a small contingency of her flock perched on the uppermost level of the main fountain. There they were, four purple-and-white hoopoes, watching over her on this most momentous of days. Their presence alone gave her new confidence. And when she was shown through the gate to the Sultan’s audience chamber, she knew they were waiting for her just outside the door.
The walls of the audience chamber were decorated with green and red and blue carved plaster. Bundles of light fell from a latticework screen just below a peacock-colored ceiling and the room smelled faintly of lilac. It was much smaller than she had expected, about the same size as her bedroom in the Bey’s house. A tidy row of Viziers and their heralds lined the wall to her right. To her left, Jamaludin Pasha, the Grand Vizier, was seated in an oversized wooden chair. And at the center of the back wall, reclining on a massive crimson divan, was the Sultan himself, His Excellency Abdulhamid II. Physically, the Sultan was a slight man, with dark bushy eyebrows, a crisp mustache, and lips like a doubled cherry. Eleonora felt her skin pucker. Here was the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire, the Caliph of Islam. Here was one of the most powerful men in the world. And yet, he was a man like all the rest.
She bowed on one knee, as the herald had instructed her, and pressed her forehead to the cool marble floor. When she stood again, the Grand Vizier smiled and shifted in his seat. He adjusted the band of his turban, then removed a small notebook from the folds of his caftan.
“Miss Cohen. As you can imagine, we have quite a large amount of business to attend to every day. Nevertheless, His Excellency was quite intrigued by what he heard about you, your studies, the story of your life—”
“Indeed.”
Eleonora could barely hear what the Sultan had said, but when he spoke the room fell silent. She bowed again and a flush crept up through her body. He was speaking to her, she told herself. She could feel the sweat forming on her palms.
“Would you mind,” the Sultan began, “if I asked you a few questions? We have heard a number of amazing things about you. But it is difficult sometimes to know what is true and what is not true.”
“Yes,” Eleonora said. Her voice croaked. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
“Is it true that you can read in five languages?”
Eleonora counted in her head. She didn’t want to contradict the Sultan, but the truth was that she could read in seven languages: Romanian, Greek, Latin, Turkish, French, English, and Arabic.
“If you please, Your Excellency. That is not true.”
The Grand Vizier jotted something in his notebook.
“How many languages can you read in?”
“Seven, Your Excellency.”
“And is it true,” the Sultan continued, with a sly smile, “that you have read all the books in the library of your guardian, our friend Moncef Barcous Bey?”
“Your Excellency, I have read many of the books in the library, but I have not read them all.”
The Sultan nodded.
“And which, of the ones you have read, is your favorite?”
“The Hourglass, Your Excellency.”
She glanced at the Grand Vizier, who was recording her answers in his notebook.
“The Hourglass,” Abdulhamid mused. “I do not think I have ever come across that book.”
“It is quite wonderful, Your Excellency.”
He turned to the Grand Vizier.
“Have you read The Hourglass?”
“No, Your Excellency, I have not.”
Then the Sultan turned to the line of Viziers on his left.
“Have any of you read The Hourglass?”
There was a shower of nervous murmuring before one of the Viziers spoke.
“Your Excellency, I don’t believe this book has been translated into Turkish.”
“Well, then we will have to have it translated—”
Just then, a herald entered the room and whispered something in Jamaludin Pasha’s ear. He nodded and the herald left as silently as he had come.
“I myself,” the Sultan continued, “am quite partial to stories of mystery and suspense. The authors are British in the main. Edgar Allan Poe and Wilkie Collins are the best, though there are some French writers I admire as well.”
He paused and regarded the ceiling.
“Then, of course, one is also drawn to the great Arab and Persian poets.”
Before Eleonora could respond, a new herald came into the room and handed a telegram to the Grand Vizier.
“Your Excellency,” Jamaludin Pasha said, after reading the telegram. “I am very sorry to disturb our conversation with Miss Cohen, but a matter of the utmost urgency has just come to my attention.”
One of the guards stepped forward to lead Eleonora out of the room, but the Sultan lifted his hand and stopped him.
“She can stay,” he said. “This will not take more than a few moments, I presume, and I would not like to leave our guest waiting outside.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” said Jamaludin Pasha. “Of course.”
He pressed the telegram flat against his notebook and read it again to himself before summarizing its contents for the court.
“The German Imperial Admiralty informs us that the Mesudiye continues to be harassed by Russian torpedo boats, even after withdrawing toward Sinop. They say they have made numerous attempts to contact Russian naval commanders in both Sevastopol and St. Petersburg, with no success. It appears from the Russians’ silence that this is an official act of belligerence.”
Abdulhamid sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose.
“The telegram is from General von Caprivi himself. He says he understands the delicacy of the situation, and that he respects our sovereignty in the utmost. However, he reiterates his recommendation to respond with force.”
“And what would you recommend?” the Sultan asked.
“I would recommend giving the Mesudiye’s captain carte blanche to respond as he sees fit. These new Russian torpedo boats have some armor, but they can’t possibly stand up to the firepower of an ironclad.”
“Are there no other options?”
“None that I can see. I understand that you are reticent of Russian torpedoes, Your Excellency, but these boats are clearly within Ottoman waters. If we do not respond to belligerence in sovereign waters, we
will further erode our standing in the Black Sea. To do nothing would admit fear, to St. Petersburg as well as to Berlin.”
After considering the Grand Vizier’s advice for a moment, the Sultan turned to the line of Viziers on his left.
“Do you all agree with Jamaludin Pasha?”
There was a chorus of nodding and mumbled assent. Clenching his eyebrows, Abdulhamid thumbed the hem of his caftan. He seemed to lose himself in the pattern of the fabric. Then he looked up at Eleonora.
“What do you think?” he asked. “What would you recommend?”
“Me?”
“Yes,” he said. “As a former resident of the Black Sea provinces and a student of history. What would you recommend?”
The Grand Vizier coughed hard into his hand and wrote a few words in his notebook.
“I can’t say,” Eleonora began. “I can’t say I fully understand the situation.”
The herald had said she could give the Sultan advice if advice was explicitly requested, and His Excellency had clearly requested her advice. Still, she didn’t know anything about politics, except for what she had read in books. Biting the inside of her cheek, Eleonora thought through all the books she had ever read, trying to recall an analogous situation.
“Perhaps,” she said finally, “Your Excellency, perhaps this situation is somewhat similar to that of Bithynia after the rise of King Mithridates.”
“Go on,” said the Sultan.
“According to Appian, Bithynia and Rome were both threatened by King Mithridates. However, the threat to Bithynia was more immediate. Knowing this, Rome was able to incite them to battle against Mithridates. The Bithynians lost the battle, and took heavy losses, but their loss gave the Romans time to gather their forces.”
The Sultan thought for a moment before he spoke.
“By firing on the Russian torpedo boats, we would be instigating a battle that is more in the Germans’ interest—”
“Your Excellency,” the Grand Vizier interrupted. “A matter of great importance and secrecy has just come to my attention. Could I have a word with you in private?”
Chapter Twenty
When the audience chamber was empty, Jamaludin Pasha rose from his chair and approached the Sultan’s divan.
“What is on your mind, Jamaludin Pasha?”
“Your Excellency,” he said. “If you don’t mind me speaking frankly.”
“Not at all.”
“I hope you will excuse my interruption of your audience with Miss Cohen. But I must say, Your Excellency, I do not think it entirely wise for you to be taking advice from a child.”
Abdulhamid stroked the hairs at the back of his neck.
“And why is that?”
“First of all, and most important, Miss Cohen does not understand our political situation, nor our relationship with the Russians, nor our relationship with the Germans. She herself admitted as much. Second, it is unseemly for a monarch to request advice from a child, no matter what the circumstances. And third, we know nothing of her political inclinations. She could right now be passing information to Moncef Bey or Reverend Muehler. She could be a spy herself, for the Russians, the Romanians, the French—”
“Thank you,” said the Sultan. “Thank you for your perspective on this matter. As always, I appreciate your advice, but in this case I must disagree.”
Jamaludin Pasha looked down again at the telegram.
“Miss Cohen,” the Sultan continued, “heard nothing today that she would not be able to learn from the newspapers tomorrow. And she has proven through the sagacity of her advice that she understands the political situation quite well. As for the wisdom of taking advice from a child, I am personally of the inclination that sound advice is sound no matter where it comes from. I would think that you should appreciate this position as well as anyone.”
“I do, Your Excellency.”
“Furthermore, it just so happens that Miss Cohen perfectly articulated my own thinking on the matter. If she were a beggar, if she were a monkey, if she were the very Tsar of Russia, I would take her advice just the same.”
“Your Excellency,” the Grand Vizier began. “Apart from the issue of where the advice comes from, I must counsel strongly against a strategy of nonengagement.”
He paused to gauge the Sultan’s reaction before expanding on this point.
“By not firing at least a warning shot, we will cede de facto control of the Black Sea to the Russians. Additionally, I fear General von Caprivi will regard our inaction as a direct affront to our alliance with the Kaiser.”
“What, my friend, is the use of an alliance if it compels you to act against your own best interests?”
“As you know, Your Excellency, the Germans are among our most important allies. They possess the second most powerful navy in the world and they have vowed to protect our interests anywhere they are threatened.”
“Why don’t they protect us from the Russians now?”
Without waiting for an answer, Abdulhamid issued his final command.
“Tell the captain of the Mesudiye that he is under strict orders not to fire unless fired upon, and that he should avoid direct engagement as best he can.”
The Grand Vizier was silent for a long while before he responded.
“Your Excellency, I understand that the memory of the Intikbah might compel one to shy away from firing on a Russian torpedo boat—”
“The Intikbah,” Abdulhamid said, standing from his divan, “has nothing to do with my decision.”
Without another word, the Sultan left the audience chamber. Blinking against the harsh white light of the sun, he paced along the garden path of the Enderun, from the Library of Ahmet III to the Pages’ Quarters and back. Regardless of his feelings on naval engagement, it was clear that the Russians were trying to incite a response, which they could then use as a pretext for a wider battle. It was also clear, in spite of anything Jamaludin Pasha said to the contrary, that the Germans would benefit enormously from an Ottoman-Russian skirmish in the Black Sea. For now at least, nonengagement was the best response, no matter what General von Caprivi recommended. Abdulhamid did not relish backing down from a fight, not at all, but as Darius I so wisely said, “There is no need for force where subtlety will serve.”
Even if he wanted to respond with force, Abdulhamid knew the empire was too weak to withstand a prolonged war with the Russians. He could barely staff the palace, let alone the provincial governments. The minorities were clamoring for greater representation, in some cases demanding self-rule. And his army, once the terror of Vienna and Budapest, was being retrained by European generals. Even with the translation college, the modernization of the officers’ corps, and the railroad, even with all the constitutional changes he had implemented, the empire was on the brink of disaster. Every day, Abdulhamid could feel the shackles tightening around him. If he could drag the empire out from under the thumb of the Great Powers, satisfy its debtors, reverse the capitulations, and dismiss the foreign military advisors, then he might be able to reassert naval dominance in the Black Sea. At this point, however, he needed to be cautious.
Pausing at the sundial next to the Pages’ Quarters, Abdulhamid ran his fingers along the grooves that represented the hours of the day. The shadow of the sun bent over his knuckles and continued on its way. As powerful as he was, he knew there were many things that were out of his control. One had to work as best as one could within the bounds of history. If only Jamaludin Pasha understood this. If only his advisors were more like Miss Cohen, untainted by convention and unafraid to speak their minds. He paused to consider a purple-and-white hoopoe perched on the curled roof of the audience chamber. It jerked its head to the left, then flew off across the water. That was it. Rapping the gnomon of the sundial with his knuckle, the Sultan made straight for the Library of Ahmet III.
When he entered, the librarian nearly fell off his ladder with shock.
“Your Excellency,” he said after descending carefully and bowing. “Wh
at a pleasant surprise. How can I be of service?”
“I have a request,” the Sultan said. “A request that needs to be carried out in the strictest of confidence.”
“Of course, Your Excellency. Anything you need.”
“First, I need you to gather all the decrees and correspondence related to our relationship with the Great Powers, specifically the Russians and Germans. Then, have copies of these materials made and have them brought to Miss Eleonora Cohen, at the residence of Moncef Barcous Bey.”
The Sultan paused to let his librarian write down these details.
“Come to me when you are done assembling the materials and I will give you a note to include as cover. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Your Excellency. My only concern is that the volume of material you are requesting might exceed the capacity of a single carriage.”
“Make a limit of six crates and prioritize the most relevant documents.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. Right away.”
His orders given to the librarian and the Grand Vizier, Abdulhamid set off that next morning at dawn on his annual birding excursion to Lake Manyas. Summer was not the ideal time of year for bird-watching in the region, but Dr. Benedict, the eminent British ornithologist who had been invited to lead the trip, had a very busy schedule and the Sultan intended to make the most of their time. The journey across the Sea of Marmara took most of the first day and that evening they camped near a Cossack fishing village on the northern side of the lake. The next morning they rode around to the southern shore and raised a more permanent camp, a few kilometers from a village of Tartar refugees. Both the Cossacks and the Tartars sent gifts in honor of the Sultan’s visit. For the most part, however, Abdulhamid and his party did not concern themselves with the human residents of the region. And aside from a somewhat restless first night’s sleep, the standoff in the Black Sea did not weigh too heavily on the Sultan’s thoughts. After setting up camp, he and his party spent most of their time with their field glasses at their eyes.
The Oracle of Stamboul Page 18