The Oracle of Stamboul (19 page)

“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?”

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. “What 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.

Although the spring migration had ended a few weeks earlier,
they were able to observe a number of species in the process of nesting and breeding. As the waters of the lake receded, warblers, egrets, and swans made their nests in the vast swath of exposed reeds and wildflowers. Leading the Sultan’s party along the shore, Dr. Benedict pointed out the nest of a penduline tit, an elaborate pear-shaped contraption hung from the branches of a pine tree. Woven from discarded spiderwebs, animal hair, and plants, the nest had a false entrance and a trap door to confuse potential predators. Over the course of the trip, the Sultan saw more than fifty species of bird: white frosted geese, golden orioles, night herons, glossy ibises, a mass of spoonbills, and three pairs of bright orange-billed Dalmatian pelicans. It was the penduline tit, however, with its convoluted, piecemeal nest, that most captured his imagination.

On the fifth and final night of the expedition, just before dusk, the Sultan was in his tent, contemplating the empire’s political situation as it compared to the nest of the penduline tit, when a wild boar charged the camp. Before any of the dragomans could think to react, Dr. Benedict shot the boar dead with his handgun. Although he did not partake of the swine himself, Abdulhamid ordered the animal skinned and roasted in honor of Dr. Benedict, his knowledge, and his heroism. It was a wonderful finale to the trip. In addition to the boar, the Sultan’s party was treated to stuffed quinces, roast lamb, and a hearty barley soup.

When Abdulhamid returned to the palace late that next evening, he could tell immediately something was amiss. Because it was exceedingly late, however, he went straight to bed. When he awoke, he saw that his instincts had been correct. The proof of this was his mother, sitting patiently in a chair next to the door of his sleeping chamber.

“Good morning, Mother.”

“I hear your excursion was a success,” she said, rising to bow.

“Yes.” He smiled. “Very much so. I saw three pairs of Dalmatian pelicans and the nest of a penduline tit.”

“A penduline tit,” she repeated. “Excellent.”

“But I can’t imagine you have been sitting by my bed all morning in order to ask me how my trip went.”

“No, Your Excellency. I must admit, I have not.”

“What is troubling you, Mother?”

“I don’t want to spoil your first morning back with my concerns.”

“If you are concerned,” he said, sitting up in bed, “I am concerned.”

She took her seat again and turned it toward him.

“I heard a rumor yesterday that troubled me deeply, a rumor that troubled me so much I felt compelled to wake my favorite and firstborn son from his sleep.”

“Tell me, Mother.”

“People are saying that you asked that Cohen girl for her advice regarding a delicate military situation, and that you are planning to send her confidential materials, for her perusal.”

His silence confirmed that the rumor was correct.

“Where you get your advice is of no consequence to me,” she continued. “I know I raised you well enough to tell sound advice from unsound. What I care about is your reputation. Inside the palace, people are already beginning to talk about the situation in disparaging terms.”

“Let them talk,” he said. “They will always talk.”

“And to give this girl access to the internal deliberations of
the palace, to give potentially sensitive information to a child—a Jewess—whom we know nothing about, frankly that worries me as well.”

The Sultan rolled onto his back. The information had spread rather quickly, even for the standard of the palace.

“Who told you this?”

“Jamaludin Pasha.”

“And where did he hear it from?”

“I had assumed you told him yourself.”

“No,” said the Sultan, rolling onto his side. “I did not.”

Getting out of bed and taking leave of his mother, Abdulhamid told the closest herald that he wanted to eat his breakfast in the Library of Ahmet III. This was a highly unusual request, but the herald barely blinked before bowing and scurrying off to inform the kitchen staff. Meanwhile, the Sultan made his way to the library. As he had hoped, it was empty. The only movement was in a shaft of dust particles, the only sound the constant twittering of silverfish. Abdulhamid seated himself at the librarian’s desk, waited, and a few moments later his breakfast was served to him there. While he ate, he paged through a large blue ledger in the middle of the desk. It was a record of all the books that had been requested and removed from the library in the last month. He could see that much of the official deliberations and correspondence regarding the empire’s relationship with Berlin and St. Petersburg had been requested. However, there was nothing in the ledger to indicate that he, the Sultan, had requested these documents. So the librarian had covered himself in this respect, at least. The Sultan closed the ledger. As he finished his tea, the librarian himself entered the room.

“Your Excellency,” he said, his face as pale as a silverfish. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“Merely checking on the request I made last week.”

The librarian was calmed by this explanation, though not entirely.

“It is nearly finished, Your Excellency. I hope to bring you the results tomorrow morning. Six crates full of letters and official decrees.”

“Very well,” Abdulhamid said, glancing at the closed ledger. “I also have one further question.”

“Yes, of course, Your Excellency.”

“Did I not tell you that the request was confidential?”

“Yes, Your Excellency, you did.”

“Why, then, did my mother wake me this morning with the information that the project has become common knowledge?”

His ankles quavering, the librarian prostrated himself in front of the Sultan and his empty breakfast dishes.

“I did not say a word to anyone. I swear, Your Excellency.”

The Sultan considered the librarian’s back for a moment before motioning for him to stand.

“You are a pious man, are you not?”

“I am, Your Excellency. I do my best.”

“Then bring me a Koran.”

The librarian did as he was told, and Abdulhamid opened it to the first sura.