1921, October 30th, Sunday.
The third morning of Murad's nascent reign dawned with a deceptive calm over Constantinople. The waters of the Bosphorus were a placid, shimmering blue beneath a clear autumn sky, a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within the gilded walls of Yıldız Palace and the heart of its young Sultan. He had spent another few hours before sunrise with the reports, but today, his focus was not on the dead ink of past failures, but on the living potential of men who might yet serve a resurgent Empire.
His confrontation with Damat Ferid Pasha had been a necessary shock, a declaration that the old ways of governance – of managed decline and subservience – were no longer acceptable. The Grand Vizier had until tomorrow evening to produce tangible proposals, a test of his adaptability or his obsolescence. Sheikh Saffet Efendi's cautious willingness to explore discreet channels to Anatolia was a fragile seed of hope, but one that would take time to cultivate. Today, Murad intended to probe other depths, to reach out to individuals whose names had surfaced from the lists and from his own historical knowledge, men who might possess the integrity, the expertise, or the latent loyalty he so desperately needed.
"Hafız Bey," Murad addressed the Lord Chamberlain after his solitary breakfast, "I wish to grant audiences today. First, to the most respected Ahmed Tevfik Pasha. I understand he is currently… at leisure. Extend to him my profound respects and request his presence at the palace at his earliest convenience. Perhaps late morning." Hafız Bey, ever imperturbable, bowed. "It shall be done, Your Majesty. Tevfik Pasha, though not currently in office, commands great respect. A wise choice, if I may be so bold." "Your boldness is appreciated when it aligns with wisdom, Chamberlain," Murad said with a faint smile. "And after Tevfik Pasha, I wish to see Fevzi Pasha, the Ferik currently attached to the First Army garrison headquarters here in the city. Inform him that his Sultan requires his military counsel. Early afternoon, perhaps." This second name clearly surprised Hafız Bey. Fevzi Pasha was a competent, respected soldier, yes, but not of the uppermost echelon of the palace's usual military confidantes. He was known for his professionalism and a certain gruff outspokenness, and there were indeed whispers of his 'nationalist sympathies,' which in the current climate of Damat Ferid's government, made him somewhat suspect. "Fevzi Pasha also, Your Majesty. It shall be arranged."
Ahmed Tevfik Pasha arrived shortly before noon. He was an old man, well into his seventies, with a fragile frame but eyes that still held a keen, intelligent light. His movements were slow but deliberate, his bearing one of innate dignity. He had served as Grand Vizier multiple times, navigating some of the Empire's most turbulent periods, including the aftermath of the Young Turk Revolution and the disastrous entry into the Great War, though he had often been a voice of caution and moderation. He was, Murad knew, a man of principle, albeit one perhaps too accustomed to the limitations of their dire circumstances. He was dressed impeccably but simply, without the ostentatious decorations some of the other pashas favored.
"Your Imperial Majesty," Tevfik Pasha said, offering a deep, respectful bow that nonetheless did not feel servile. "You honor an old servant by summoning him from his retirement." "Pasha," Murad replied, rising to greet him and gesturing him to a comfortable armchair, a mark of respect for his age and past service. "The Empire has no true retirement for men of your wisdom and experience, especially in times like these. I am young, Pasha, new to this awesome burden. The counsel of those who have weathered past storms is invaluable to me. Please, speak freely. Your words will not leave this room."
Tevfik Pasha settled into the chair, his gaze calm and appraising as he studied the young Sultan. News of Murad's sharp exchanges with Damat Ferid, and his unprecedented demand for unfiltered reports, had undoubtedly reached him. "Your Majesty is kind," Tevfik began, his voice soft but clear. "I have served this Empire under four of your noble predecessors. I have seen moments of hope turn to ashes, and moments of despair unexpectedly birth new resolve. What counsel can an old man offer to a new Sultan, save to pray for his wisdom and fortitude?"
"Your honest assessment, Pasha," Murad said directly. "You have seen the state of our affairs from the highest levels. You signed the Armistice of Mudros alongside your government then, under duress I know, but you saw the immediate aftermath. You have seen the Treaty of Sèvres. You have seen the rise of the resistance in Anatolia. In your unvarnished opinion, what is the greatest immediate threat to the survival of what remains of the Ottoman state and the Caliphate? Is it the Allied occupation? The Greek invasion in the west? The nationalist movement in Ankara? Or is it something within these very walls, within our own governance?"
Tevfik Pasha was silent for a long moment, his gaze distant. "Your Majesty asks profound questions that have no simple answers. The Allies hold our capital, our finances, our throat. The Greeks, emboldened by them, carve at our western flesh. The movement in Ankara, born of legitimate frustration and a desire to resist foreign dismemberment, now challenges the very legitimacy of the Sultan's government and risks a disastrous civil war. But perhaps," he said, his eyes returning to meet Murad's, "the most insidious threat has always been our own disunity, our slowness to adapt, our tendency to cling to the shadows of past glories while ignoring the harsh light of present realities. For too long, we have been reactive, not proactive."
This was the kind of frankness Murad had hoped for. "And the current government, Pasha? Under Damat Ferid? Do you believe its policies of… accommodation with the Entente, and condemnation of Ankara, are serving the Empire's best interests?" Tevfik Pasha chose his words carefully. "Damat Ferid Pasha is a man of considerable diplomatic experience. He genuinely believes, I think, that his path is the only one that prevents even greater catastrophe, such as the complete abolition of the Sultanate and Caliphate by the Allies. He sees Ankara as an unaffordable provocation. Whether that belief is… well-founded, or merely convenient for our occupiers, is a matter of perspective, Your Majesty."
"And your perspective, Pasha?" Murad pressed. "My perspective, Your Majesty," Tevfik said with a sigh, "is that an Empire that cannot command the loyalty of its own people, especially its soldiers in Anatolia, and that exists solely on the sufferance of foreign powers, is an Empire in name only. True sovereignty is not granted; it is asserted and defended. The path of pure accommodation has led us to Sèvres. Where will it lead us next?" "Precisely my concern," Murad affirmed. "If a different path were to be considered, one that sought to rebuild our internal strength, to achieve a measure of unity among all Turkish factions, and to negotiate with the Allies from a position of… slightly less abject weakness, would such a path even be conceivable? And would men of experience and integrity, like yourself, be willing to offer their counsel, perhaps even their service, to such an endeavor, however perilous?"
A flicker of something – surprise, perhaps interest, perhaps the rekindling of an old fire – passed through Tevfik Pasha's eyes. "Your Majesty speaks of a profound shift. Such a path would indeed be perilous, inviting immense pressure from the Allies and requiring a delicate, almost impossible, reconciliation with Ankara. It would require leadership of extraordinary vision and courage." He looked directly at the young man before him. "If such leadership were to emerge… truly emerge… I believe there are still patriots, both old and young, who would answer the call, despite the risks. As for this old servant… my only wish is to see the Empire and the Caliphate survive with honor. If my limited experience can be of any use to a Sultan who genuinely seeks that goal, it is his to command."
Murad felt a surge of cautious optimism. This was more than he had dared hope for from this first meeting. "Your words give me strength, Pasha. I may indeed call upon your wisdom again, sooner rather than later. For now, know that your counsel is deeply valued."
After Tevfik Pasha departed, leaving Murad with much to ponder, the early afternoon brought Fevzi Pasha. The Ferik (Lieutenant General) was a man in his late forties, lean and wiry, with a weathered face, a stern, disciplined expression, and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He wore a simple, well-maintained service uniform, devoid of excessive ornamentation. His salute was crisp, his demeanor that of a professional soldier, not a courtier. He was, Murad knew from the dossier Hafız Bey had discreetly provided alongside the official one, the AU version of Fevzi Çakmak who, in this timeline, hadn't yet fully thrown his lot with Ankara but was known for his competence and his quiet disapproval of the Constantinople government's military impotence.
"Pasha," Murad began, again forgoing excessive formality, "thank you for attending. I have been reviewing the state of our armed forces, or what remains of them under the current restrictions. The reports are… disheartening. I require your candid assessment as a soldier. What is the true fighting capability of the units currently garrisoned in and around Constantinople, loyal to this government?"
Fevzi Pasha did not hesitate. "Minimal, Your Imperial Majesty. They are sufficient for parade duties and perhaps for quelling minor civil disturbances if the police are overwhelmed. They are not equipped, trained, or morally prepared for sustained combat against a determined enemy, be it foreign or domestic." His voice was blunt, almost stark. "A bleak assessment, but an honest one, I suspect," Murad said. "What are the primary deficiencies? Equipment? Leadership? Morale? Training?" "All of the above, Your Majesty," Fevzi replied. "Equipment is obsolete or in short supply, Allied restrictions prevent modernization or adequate ammunitioning. Many of the senior officers are political appointees, more concerned with their pensions and palace intrigue than with military readiness. Morale is rock bottom; the men see their comrades in Anatolia fighting for Turkish honor while they polish boots for Allied inspections. Training is perfunctory, limited by fuel and ammunition shortages, and often irrelevant to modern warfare."
"If," Murad posed hypothetically, "resources could be found, if a new sense of purpose could be instilled, if leadership was appointed based on merit rather than favor, could a small, effective, and genuinely loyal force be reconstituted here? Not to challenge the Allies directly, not yet, but to provide the Sultanate with a measure of independent strength, a core around which to rebuild?" Fevzi Pasha's expression remained guarded, but a flicker of interest appeared in his sharp eyes. "The Turkish soldier is brave and resilient, Your Majesty. With proper leadership, training, equipment, and a cause he believes in, he is second to none. To rebuild even a small, effective force under current Allied scrutiny would be an immense challenge. It would require secrecy, ingenuity, and a ruthless weeding out of the incompetent and the disloyal. But… theoretically… it is not impossible. It would take time. And it would require a clear, unwavering commitment from the highest level – from you, Your Majesty."
"That commitment exists, Pasha," Murad stated firmly. "What of the situation in Anatolia? Your professional assessment of Mustafa Kemal's army? Its strengths, its weaknesses?" "Strengths: High morale, experienced leadership from the Great War, a unified command structure, popular support in the regions they control, and a clear objective – the expulsion of foreign forces. They are also fighting on home ground. Weaknesses: Limited industrial base for resupply, dependence on captured equipment or clandestine foreign aid, a long front to defend, and the ever-present risk of internal divisions, though Kemal Pasha has proven adept at managing those so far." Fevzi delivered the assessment like a staff report.
"And the Greek army they face?" "Well-equipped by the British, initially high morale, but now overstretched, suffering logistical problems, and facing an increasingly determined enemy. Their recent offensive stalled. They are vulnerable, but still a formidable force if not properly countered."
Murad nodded slowly. This was the kind Aof clear-eyed analysis he had been missing from Damat Ferid's politically tainted reports. "Pasha, if I were to task you, discreetly for now, with developing a plan for the realistic improvement of the forces here in Constantinople – focusing initially on a core brigade, perhaps, loyal directly to the Sultan – a plan that addresses recruitment of motivated men, practical training under current constraints, sourcing of essential equipment through any means necessary, and the identification of truly capable and loyal junior officers… would you be willing to undertake such a sensitive task?"
Fevzi Pasha stood a little straighter. The guarded look was replaced by one of intense concentration. "Your Majesty, if you are serious about restoring the honor and capability of the Ottoman soldier, even on a small scale to begin with… if you are willing to shield such an effort from political interference and Allied sabotage… then yes. I would consider it my sacred duty to undertake such a task."
"I am entirely serious, Pasha," Murad said. "Prepare such a plan. Focus on what is achievable in the short term, with utmost secrecy. Report directly to me. Hafız Bey will facilitate our future communications." "It will be done, Your Majesty." A new energy seemed to emanate from the soldier. He saluted, a gesture filled with renewed purpose, and departed.
As evening descended, casting long shadows across his study, Murad felt a profound sense of fatigue, yet also a nascent feeling of accomplishment. He had reached out to two men of vastly different backgrounds and experiences. Tevfik Pasha, the elder statesman, had offered a glimmer of hope that a wiser, more honorable political path might find support. Fevzi Pasha, the professional soldier, had shown a willingness to undertake the daunting task of reforging a military instrument, however small, loyal to the Sultan's new vision.
These were but initial probes, feeling out the dark and treacherous waters. The great hulking ships of Allied power still dominated the harbor, and Damat Ferid Pasha, like a wary old shark, was still circling. Tomorrow, the Grand Vizier was due to present his "proposals." Murad anticipated a display of either feigned compliance, outright obstruction, or perhaps, just perhaps, a genuine attempt to adapt.
Whatever Damat Ferid brought, Murad knew he was no longer facing the crisis alone with just his reincarnated memories. He was beginning to gather his pieces on the complex chessboard of Constantinople. The game was far from won, but the Sultan was finally making his own moves.